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THEORY 


OF 

MORAL SENTIMENTS; 


OR, 

AN ESSAY 


Towards an Analysis of the Principles by which Men naturally judge 
concerning the Conduct and Character , first of their Neighbours , 
and afterwards of themselves. 

, 

TO WHICH IS ADDED, 


3 Dts&eetatton on tfjc Drtgtn of Languages, 


BY 

ADAM SMITH, 

• 9 

LL.D. F.R.S. #c. 


V 


TWELFTH EDITION. 

Enriched with a Portrait and Life of the Author . 



GLASGOW: 
printed anu for XL Chapman* 

Sold by J. & A. Duncan, A. Wilson, Brash & Reid, J. Scrymgeour, A. Molleson, J. Smith Sc Son, 
W. Turnbull, M. Ogle, W. M‘Feat & Co. D. Niven & Co. J. Steven Sc Co. 

J. Gardner, G. Lumsden, A. & D. Scott, and W. Duncan. 

Also by Archibald Constable Sc Co. Manners & Miller, and J. Anderson, Edinburgh— 
Vemor, Hood & Sharpe, and Constable, Hunter, Park Sc Hunter, 
LONDON, 


1809 , 




V 





































































ADVERTISEMENT. 


SINCE the first publication of the THEORY OF 
MORAL SENTIMENTS, which was so long ago 
as the beginning of the year 1759, several corrections, 
and a good many illustrations of the doctrines con¬ 
tained in it, have occurred to me. But the various oc¬ 
cupations in which the different accidents of my life ne¬ 
cessarily involved me, have till now prevented me from 
revising this work with the care and intention which I 
always intended. The reader will find the principal 
alterations which I have made in this New Edition, in 
the last Chapter of the third Section of Part First \ 
and in the four first Chapters of Part Third. Part 
Sixth, as it stands in this New Edition, is altogether 
new. In Part Seventh, I have brought together the 
greater part of the different passages concerning the 
Stoical Philosophy, which, in the former Editions, had 
been scattered about in different parts of the work. 
I have likewise endeavoured to explain more fully, 
and examine more distinctly, some of the doctrines 
of that famous sect. In the fourth and last Section 
of the same Part, I have thrown together a few addi¬ 
tional observations concerning the duty and principle 
of veracity. There are, besides, in other parts of the 
work, a few other alterations and corrections of no 
great moment. 




In ths last paragraph of the First Edition of the 
present work, I said that I should in another discourse 
endeavour to give an account of the general princi¬ 
ples of law and government, and of the different re¬ 
volutions which they had undergone in the different 
ages and periods of society; not only in what concerns 
justice, but in what concerns police, revenue, and arms, 
and whatever else is the object of law. In the Enqui¬ 
ry CONCERNING THE NATURE AND CAUSES OF THE 

Wealth of Nations, I have partly executed this 
promise; at least so far as concerns police, revenue 
and arms. What remains, the theory of jurispru¬ 
dence, which I have long projected, I have hitherto 
been hindered from executing, by the same occupa¬ 
tions which had till now prevented me from revising 
the present work. Though my very advanced age 
leaves me, I acknowledge, very little expectation of 
ever being able to execute this great work to my own 
satisfaction; yet as I have not altogether abandoned 
the design, and as I wish still to continue under the 
obligation of doing what I can, I have allowed the 
paragraph to remain as it was published more than 
thirty years ago, when I entertained no doubt of being 
able to execute every thing which it announced. 


CONTENTS, 


Life of the Author ,.........,.,„ M . Page 1 

part jftrst 

Of the Propriety of Action. 
SECTION I. 

OF THE SENSE OF PROPRIETY. 

CHAPTER I. 

Of Sympathy,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, ... 29 

CHAPTER II. 

Of the Pleasure of Mutual Sympathy,.,, ..36 

CHAPTER III. 

Of the manner in 'which tve judge of the Propriety or Impro¬ 
priety of the Affections of other Men , by their Concord or 
Dissonance ivith our o'wn..,,, . ..39 

CHAPTER IV. 

The same Subject continued. . 43 

CHAPTER V. 

Of the Amiable and Respectable Virtues ..............49 








CONTENTS. 


8 


/ 


SECTION II. 


OF TIIE DEGREES OF THE DIFFERENT PASSIONS WHICH ARE 


CONSISTENT WITH PROPRIETY. 

INTRODUCTION. Page 54- 

CHAPTER I. 

Of the Passions 'which take their Origin from the Body .. 55 

CHAPTER II. 


Of those Passiojis which take their Origin from a particular 


turn or habit of the Imagination .60 

CHAPTER III. 

Of the Unsocial Passions ...63 

CHAPTER IV. 

Of the Social Passions .70 

CHAPTER V. 

Of the Selfsh Passions .......... .73 


SECTION III. 

OF THE EFFECTS OF PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY UPON THE 
JUDGMENT OF MANKIND WITH REGARD TO THE PRO¬ 
PRIETY OF ACTION; AND WHY IT IS MORE EASY 
TO OBTAIN THEIR APPROBATION IN THE ONE 
STATE THAN IN THE OTHER. 

CHAPTER I. 

That though our Sympathy with Sorrow is generally a more 
lively sensation than our Sympathy with <Ioy f it commonly 
falls much more short of the violence of what is naturally 
felt by the person principally concerned ...... 77 









CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER II. 

Of the origin of Ambition , and of the distinction of Ranks. Page 85 

CHAPTER III. 

Of the Corruption of our Moral Sentiments, •which is oc¬ 
casioned by this disposition to admire the Rich and the 
Great, and to despise or neglect persons of poor and mean 
condition ... .... .98 


$art £>econu. 

Of Merit and Demerit; or, of the Objects of 
Reward and Punishment. 

SECTION I. 

OF THE SENSE OF MERIT AND DEMERIT. 

INTRODUCTION.104 

CHAPTER I. 

That whatever appears to be the proper object of Gratitude, 
appears to deserve reward; and that, in the same man¬ 
ner, whatever appears to be the proper object of Resent¬ 


ment, appears to deserve punishment ...105 

CHAPTER II. 

Of the proper objects of Gratitude and Resentment .108 

CHAPTER III. 


That where there is no Approbation of the conduct of the per¬ 
son who confers the benefit, there is little Sympathy with the 
Gratitude of him who receives it; and that, on the contra¬ 
ry, where there is no Disapprobation of the motives of the 
person who does the mischief, there is no sort of Sympathy 

ynth the resentment of him who suffers it ...Ill 

b 







10 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Recapitulation of the foregoing Chapters ... Page 115 

CHAPTER V. 

The Analysis of the sense of Merit and Demerit ...,.115 

SECTION II. 

' OF JUSTICE AND BENEFICENCE. 

CHAPTER I. 

Comparison of those two Virtues ...120 

CHAPTER II. 

Of the sense of Justice , of Remorse, and of the consciousness 
of Merit . .....125 

CHAPTER III. 

Of the Utility of this Constitution of Nature ...129 

SECTION III. 

OF THE INFLUENCE OF FORTUNE UPON THE SENTIMENTS 
OF MANKIND, WITH REGARD TO THE MERIT OR 
DEMERIT OF ACTIONS. 

INTRODUCTION.13S 

CHAPTER I. 

Of the causes of this Infuence of Fortune ........................140 

CHAPTER II. 

Of the extent of this Infuence of Fortune .. 144 

CHAPTER III. 

Of the final cause of this Irregularity of Sentiments. ....154 











CONTENTS. 


II 


0a rt 

Of the Foundation of our Judgments concern¬ 
ing our own Sentiments and Conduct, 
and of the Sense of Duty. 

CHAPTER I. 

Of the Principle of Self-approbation and of Self-disappro¬ 
bation ....... Page 159 

CHAPTER II. 

Of the love of Praise , and of that of Praise-worthiness; and 
cf the dread of Blame , and of that of Blame-worthiness .163 

CHAPTER III. 

Of the Influence and Aitthority of Conscience .....186 

CHAPTER IV. 

Of the Nature of Self-deceit y and of the Origin and Use of 
General Rules„ . 213 

CHAPTER V. 

Of the Influence and Authority of the General Rides of Mo¬ 
rality , and that they are justly regarded as the Laws of the 
Deity ... 220 

CHAPTER VI. 

In what cases the Sense of Duty ought to be the sole principle 
of our Conduct; and in what cases it ought to concur with 
other motives .. 233 

0art ifowrtl). 

Of the Effect of Utility upon the Sentiment 
of Approbation. 








• 12 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER I. 

Of the Beauty which the appearance of Utility bestows upon 
all the Productions of Art , and of the extensive Influence 
of this species of Beauty . Page 244 

CHAPTER II. 

Of the Beauty which the appearance of Utility bestows upon 
the Characters and Actions of Men; and how far the Per¬ 
ception of this Beauty may he regarded as one of the origi¬ 
nal principles of Approbation .....*...2 55 

$art 

Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon 
the Sentiments of Moral Approbation 
and Disapprobation, 

CHAPTER. I. 

Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon our Notions of 
Beauty and Deformity ......264 

CHAPTER II. 

Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon Moral Senti¬ 
ments .....272 


#art 

Of the Character of Virtue, 


INTRODUCTION, 


28S 







CONTENTS. IS 

SECTION I. 

OF THE CHARACTER OF THE INDIVIDUAL, SO FAR AS IT AFFECTS 

his own happiness; or of prudence . Page 289 

SECTION II. 

OF THE CHARACTER OF THE INDIVIDUAL, SO FAR AS IT CAN 
AFFECT THE HAPPINESS OF OTHER PEOPLE. 

INTRODUCTION.297 

CHAPTER I. 

Of the Order in 'which Individuals are recommended hy Na¬ 
ture to our Care and Attention .298 

CHAPTER II. 

Of the Order in which Societies are by Nature recommended 
to our Beneficence . 310 

CHAPTER III. 

Of Universal Benevolence .*.320 

SECTION III. 

OF SELF-COMMAND... ...324* 

Conclusion of the Sixth Paid ... .357 


Of Systems of Moral Philosophy, 









14 


CONTENTS, 


SECTION I. 


OF THE QUESTIONS WHICH OUGHT TO BE EXAMINED IN A THEORY 
OF MORAL SENTIMENTS.. ... Page 361 

SECTION II. 

OF THE DIFFERENT ACCOUNTS WHICH HAVE BEEN GIVEN OF 


THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 

INTRODUCTION...364 

CHAPTER I. 

Of those Systems •which make Virtue consist in Propriety ..365 

CHAPTER II. 

Of those Systems which make Virtue consist in Prudence . 397 

CHAPTER III. 


Of those Systems which make Virtue consist in Benevolence..... AO^ 
CHAPTER IV. 

Of Licentious Systems....,,. ............413 

SECTION III. 

OF THE DIFFERENT SYSTEMS WHICH HAVE BEEN FORMED 


CONCERNING THE PRINCIPLE OF APPROBATION. 

INTRODUCTION.424 

CHAPTER I. 

Of those Systems which deduce the Principle of Approbation 
from Self-love .,...425 










CONTENTS. 


15 


CHAPTER II. 

Of those Systems 'which make Reason the Principle of Appro¬ 
bation .... Page 428 

CHAPTER III. 

Of those Systems which make Sentiment the Principle of Ap¬ 
probation .433 


SECTION IV. 


OF THE MANNER IN WHICH DIFFERENT AUTHORS HAVE TREATED 
OF THE PRACTICAL RULES OF MORALITY .442 


CONSIDERATIONS 
Concerning the first 

formation of languages , 

AND THE 


Different Genius of original and compounded 
LANGUAGES. 


465 








































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* 41 





























. 


















LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 


IT is a common remark, that the Lives of Literary Men, 
spent in retirement and study, are barren of incident; and 
that, unless in a few who admire either the man or the au¬ 
thor, they are capable of exciting little interest. This ob¬ 
servation is only partially true; for, when a life devoted to 
learned research is detailed with minuteness, it can hardly 
fail to interest, and, if the gradual steps by which particular 
opinions and tenets were formed can be traced with accu¬ 
racy, it must always improve. The means, however, of 
compassing this, are generally denied to us: a literary man 
is not always conscious of these steps himself; and even 
where they are well known to him, he may feel a conscious 
superiority in leaving the world ignorant and inquisitive, or 
he may think them of too little importance to communicate 
to others. This want of information must therefore be sup¬ 
plied by conjecture, and occasional hints thrown out at ran¬ 
dom. 

ADAM SMITH was born on the 5th of June, 1723. 
He was the only child of Adam Smith, who, having exe¬ 
cuted some public offices of trust, was at last advanced to 
the Comptrollership of the Customs at Kirkaldy, a small 
town of Fifeshire celebrated as the birth-place of many dis- 
tinguished characters. His mother was of a very respectable 
family, and sister of Mr Douglas of Strathendry, father to 
the late Colonel Douglas. 

In his early years he is said to have been of a sickly and 
infirm habit of body, which, as it debars from the common 


a 


11 


LIFE OF 


sports of children, generally induces a turn for study and re¬ 
flection. His mother, liis father having died some months 
before his birth, naturally transferred all her affection to 
him; but which she seems to have tempered properly for 
his years, as he was never distinguished for any of the qual¬ 
ities so peculiar to the mother’s favourite. Loving her son 
with such tenderness, an accident which happened to him in 
infancy could not but sensibly affect her: while on a visit 
at Strathendry, he was carried off by a gang of Tinkers*; 
but a farmer in the neighbourhood, who knew him, and had 
observed him at play, instantly gave the alarm, and a pursuit 
took place, which happily restorded him to her. 

He was sent early to school, and distinguished himself 
there, by readiness of memory and closeness of application. 
Nothing, indeed, affected him so sensibly at this time, as a 
trifling superiority in any of his school-fellows; and so near 
did he approach to that standard of a promising youth re¬ 
quired by Ouintilianf, that, on some such occasions, he came 
home literally in tears. This disposition, so apt, in boys of 
the same age, to produce, instead of emulation, envy and 
hatred, if properly directed, leads to the most important con¬ 
sequences; and the teacher, Mr David Miller, seems to have 
accomplished this end with ability and complete success: for, 
notwithstanding that the talents of most of Smith’s school¬ 
fellows were eminent, and, we may believe, at that period 
nearly equal to his own, they all appear to have associated on 
the most friendly and amicable footing, and to have preserved, 
unimpaired through life, their youthful attachment. Like 
him, they were early distinguished for their love of litera¬ 
ture, and afterwards contributed to extend the circle of Scot¬ 
tish literati, which was so illustrious about the middle of last 
century. Among these were. Dr Oswald, well known for 
his work on Common Sense; his brother, Mr Oswald of 

* Vagabonds who traverse and infest the country, under pretence of mend¬ 
ing kitchen utensils. 

f Puer Die mihi detur, Sec, 


THE AUTHOR. 


ili 

Dunikeir; and the Rev. Dr John Drysdale, celebrated for 
his theological learning. 

Having in 1737 completed the usual term at the Gram¬ 
mar-school of Kirkaldy, he was sent to the University of 
Glasgow, at which he continued three years ; and in 1740, 
on receiving a nomination to a vacant exhibition, he went to 
Oxford. 

It is mentioned by Mr Stewart, on the authority of Dr 
Maclaine* of the Hague, that while at Glasgow, his favour¬ 
ite studies were Mathematics and Natural Philosophy. That 
they were his favourite studies, is very probable; but it may 
reasonably be conjectured, that classical learning occupied a 
considerable share of his attention; since at Oxford, for 
which he had been designed, it is nearly the sole basis of re«- 
spect and fame. 

The exhibitions at Oxford, of which the University of 
Glasgow has the nomination, are all of Baliol College.— 
The salaries amount to about seventy pounds a-year, which, 
though at the time of their foundation undoubtedly reckon¬ 
ed sufficient for the maintainance of the exhibitions, is now 
scarcely more than half sufficient for that purpose; but the 
situation is still an enviable one for Scotch students, whose 
views are directed to- the pulpit or the bar. 

The seven years he remained at Oxford appear to have 
been spent in a very studious manner. It is extremely pro¬ 
bable, that during this period, he devoted the greatest part of 
his time to the acquisition and study of language, as, at any 
future period of his life, it would have been scarcely possi T 
ble to acquire such an extensive, knowledge of them as he 
certainly possessed. But though designed for holy orders, 
there are no traces of his acquaintance with any of the orien¬ 
tal languages; nor does he seem to have been critically em¬ 
ployed in examining the ruder states of the modern tongues 
of Europe, as a knowledge of this kind would have prevented 


* Dr Maclaine, lately deceased, who translated and added very learned 
notes to Mosheim’s Ecclesiastical History. 



iv 


LIFE OF 


some mistakes into which he has fallen, in his Essay on the 
Formation of Language .—Indeed, with many others, he may 
have thought that such pursuits were trifling. 

Having left Oxford, he returned to his native town, and 
lived there two years with his mother, of whose society he 
was peculiarly fond.—Nothing can impress us with a deeper 
veneration for the character of Smith, than the manner in 
which he spent those two years. Most people, and these not 
the least amiable of mankind, would have felt such a retire¬ 
ment, if not unsupportable, extremely irksome; but the ami¬ 
able disposition and simple manners of Smith, made him en¬ 
joy, with keener relish, the domestic circle of his youth, and 
the conversation of his old school-fellows. 

Whatever reason he had for relinquishing his former 
plan of entering the English Church, it cannot be regarded 
but as a circumstance peculiarly fortunate for himself and the 
world. Without considerable interest, a Scotchman cannot 
be expected to rise high in English ecclesiastical preferment; 
and there is no great reason to believe that Smith’s friends 
had much interest of this nature. 

In Edinburgh, to which he removed in 1748, literature 
had begun to revive; and, in particular, during his residence 
there, a club was instituted, under the name of The Select 
Society. It was begun by Allan Ramsay, son of the cele¬ 
brated poet of that name, and painter to his Majesty, with 
fifteen others, who met together in the Advocates’ Library, 
for the purpose of improving themselves in speaking and rea¬ 
soning. From such a small beginning it gradually increased, 
till in a few years it could boast, among its number, the most 
eminent for rank and abilities in Scotland. Of this society 
Mr Smith was elected a member; but, from that diffidence 
which sometimes prevents men of superior talents from de¬ 
livering their opinions jn a mixed assembly, or it might be 
from some reason he did not choose to avow, it is said that 
he never spoke*. His friend Mr Flume Avas in the same 

* Dr Carlyle, one of the most considerable members of the Church of Scot- 


THE AUTHOR. 


V 

predicament, and thus the debates of the society were unfor¬ 
tunately deprived of the support of two men, who were un¬ 
questionably inferior to none of its members; but where 
Robertson, Blair, Kaimes, and many others of equal acute¬ 
ness and eloquence, exerted their talents, they could not fail 
to be both gratified and improved. 

The first public appearance Dr Smith made was in 1748, 
when he lectured on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres. The two 
years he spent at Kirkaldy were distinguished by nothing 
remarkable; but it may safely be affirmed of a mind so ac¬ 
tive, that it could not remain idle. Besides, the friendship 
and patronage of such men as Lord Kaimes, Lord Lough¬ 
borough, and Mr Pulteney, were not likely to be thrown 
away on one who did not deserve them; and it reflects much 
honour on these distinguished personages, to have, at this 
early period, discovered in Smith the talents which the world 
afterwards so loudly applauded. 

No outline of his Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres 
exists; a circumstance much to be regretted, as it would have 
tended to illustrate the literary history of Edinburgh. It 
cannot be doubted, however, that he made subsequent use 
of these lectures while he filled the office of Professor of Lo¬ 
gic at Glasgow, where it is expected that the initiation of 
students into the principles of fine-writing forms part of the 
teacher’s duty. But more on the subject of these lectures 
afterwards. 

To this chair he was elected by the Professors of the Uni¬ 
versity, it being in their gift; and, in 1752, he was called by 
the same body to the vacant professorship of Moral Philoso¬ 
phy, a professorship apparently better fitted for his talents 
and modes of thinking than that of Logic, as it embraces the 
metaphysical part of Logic which is at all interesting, together 

land, remarks this in a letter to Mr Stewart.— <c Among the most distinguish- 
“ ed speakers in the Select Society , were Sir Gilbert Elliot, Mr Wedderburn, 
“ Mr Andrew Pringle, Lord Kaimes, Mr Walter Stewart, Lord Elibank, and 
“ Dr Robertson. The Honourable Charles Townshend spoke once. David 

“ Hume and Adam Smith never opened their lips.”- Stewart's Life of 

bertson: Appendix. 


VI 


LIFE OF 


with his favourite study, Political Economy. At this dis¬ 
tance of time, it would not be easy to procure a more satis¬ 
factory account of his mode of discharging those important 
duties, than in the words of one of his own pupils: 

« In the professorship of Logic, to which Mr Smith was 
« appointed on his first introduction to this University, he 
« soon saw the necessity of departing widely from the plan 
“ that had been followed by his predecessors, and of direct- 
« ing the attention of his pupils to studies of a more inter- 
« esting and useful nature, than the logic and metaphysics of 
“ the schools. Accordingly, after exhibiting a general view 
u of the powers of the mind, and explaining so much of the 
“ ancient logic as was requisite to gratify curiosity, with re- 
« spect to an artificial mode of reasoning which had once oc- 
« cupied the universal attention of the learned, he dedicated 
“ all the rest of his time to the delivery of a system of rhet- 
“ oric and belles lettres. The best method of explaining 
« and illustrating the various powers of the human mind, the 
« most useful part of metaphysics, arises from an examination 
“ of the several ways of communicating our thoughts by 
« speech, and from an attention to the principles of those 
« literary compositions to persuasion or entertainment. 
#####*■##* 

“ It is much to be regretted, that the manuscript, con- 
« taining Mr Smith’s lectures on this subject, was destroyed 
“ before his death. The first, in point of composition, was 
« highly finished; and the whole discovered strong marks 
“ of taste and original genius. From the permission given 
“ to students of taking notes, many observations and opinions 
“ contained in these lectures have either been detailed in 
< ( separate deportations, or engrossed in general collections, 
“ which have since been given to the public. But these, as 
“ might be expected, have lost the air of originality, and 
“ the distinctive character which they received from their 
“ first author; and are often obscured by the multiplicity of 
“ that common-place matter, in which they are sunk and 
« involved. 


THE AUTHOR* 


vii 

c< About r year after his appointment to the professorship 
« of Logic, Mr Smith was elected to the chair of Moral Phi* 
“ losophy, vacant by the death of Mr Craigie. His course of 
“ lectures on this subject was divided into four parts. The 
« first contained Natural Theology, in which he considered 
i( the proofs of the being and attributes of God, and those 
“ principles of the human mind upon which religion is found- 
u ed. The second comprehended Ethics, strictly so called, 
fi and consisted chiefly of those doctrines which he afterwards 
“ published in his Theory of Moi'al Sentiments . In the 
“ third, he treated at more length of that branch of Morality 
66 which relates to Justice , and which, being susceptible of 
u precise and accurate rules, is for that reason capable of a 
“ full and particular explanation. 

“ Upon this subject he followed the plan that seems to be 
<{ suggested by Montesquieu; endeavouring to trace the gra- 
“ dual progress of jurisprudence, both public and private, 
“ from the rudest to the most refined ages; and to point out 
iC the effect of those arts which contribute to subsistance, and 
i( to the accumulation of property, in producing correspon- 
“ dent improvements or alterations in law and government. 
“ This important branch of his labours he also intended to 
“ give to the public; but this intention, which is mentioned 
in the conclusion of the Theory of Moral Sentiments, he 
did not live to fulfil*. 

“ In the last part of his lectures, he examined those politi- 
“ cal regulations, which are founded, not upon the principle 
“ of Justice , but that of Expediency , and which are calculat- 
“ ed to increase the riches, the power, and the prosperity of 
“ a state. Under this view he considered the political insti- 
“ tutions relating to commerce, to finances, to ecclesiastical 
“ and military establishments. What he delivered on these 

* “I shall, in another discourse, endeavour to give an account of the ge- 
neral principles of law and government, and of the different revolutions 
“ they have undergone in the different ages and periods of society; not only 
“ in what concerns justice, but in what concerns police, revenue, and arms, 
“ and whatever else is the object of law.” 


Till 


XIFE OF 


<* subjects contained the substance of the work he afterwards 
“ published, under the title of An Inquiry into the Nature 
« and Causes of the Wealth of Nations . 

« There was no situation in which the abilities of Mr 
« Smith appeared to better advantage, than as a Professor. 
« In delivering his lectures, he trusted almost entirely to ex- 
« temporary elocution. His manner, though not graceful, 
« was plain and unaffected; and as he seemed to be always 
« interested in the subject, he never failed to interest his 
« hearers. Each discourse consisted commonly of several 
“ distinct propositions, which he successively endeavoured 
“ to prove and illustrate. These propositions, when announc- 
« ed in general terms, had, from their extent, not unfre- 
« quently something of the air of a paradox. In his attempts 
“ to explain them, he often appeared at first not to be suffi- 
“ ciently possessed of the subject, and spoke with some hesi- 
“ tation. As he advanced, however, the matter seemed to 
“ croud upon him, his manner became warm and animated, 
“ and his expression easy and fluent. In points susceptible 
« f of controversy, you could easily discern that he secretly 
« conceived an opposition to his own opinions, and that he 
“ was led, upon this account, to support them with greater 
“ energy and vehemence. By the fulness and variety of his 
t( illustrations, the subject gradually swelled in his hands, 
u and acquired a dimension which, without a tedious repe- 
<c tition of the same views, was calculated to seize the atten- 
“ tion of his audience, and to afford them pleasure as well 
“ as instruction, in following the same object through all the 
“ diversity of shades and aspects in which it was presented, 
“ and afterwards in tracing it backwards to that original pro- 
<< position or general truth, from which this beautiful train 
“ of speculation had proceeded.” 

During his continuance in the University, the students 
increased yearly; and many who were not designed for the 
liberal professions attended, to profit by his wisdom. The 
novelty, also, of Lectures on Political Economy, attracted 
a number of respectable merchants of the city to his class. 



THE AUTHOR. 


ix 

where they were benefited in their commercial speculations 
by his ideas, and, in turn, could assist Mr Smith by their prac¬ 
tical knowledge of trade. Glasgow, now the first trading city 
of Scotland, was at that time rising fast into commercial con¬ 
sideration, and could boast, among her merchants, of exten¬ 
sively speculative and liberal views. 

1 he literary circle of Glasgow, too, at this time, was, 
though nearly limited to the College, highly respectable. The 
publications of some of his contemporary Professors had made 
them known throughout Europe. Simson, the translator of 
Euclid, taught the Mathematical classes; and in his society, 
and that of the learned Dr Moor, the talents of Smith would 
not be allowed to languish. 

There was, besides, at this time, a weekly meeting in the 
College, composed of the Professors and literary inhabitants 
of Glasgow and its vicinity, in which every member, by ro¬ 
tation, read an essay. This essay was followed by a debate, 
in which its merits were discussed by the other members: 
from this the author of the essay might derive new ideas, or 
correct the false opinions he might have advanced. The 
benefit resulting from such meetings and discussions must be 
acknowledged by every man of letters, who too frequently 
feel the inconvenience of publishing their works before they 
have received the opinions and criticisms of able men on their 
merits. To this respectable association, which still subsists 
in vigour, essays and detached parts of works have been read, 
which have long received the approbation of the world; and 
it may be presumed, that their respective authors did not de¬ 
rive small advantage from the remarks of their friends. 

Though of a literary profession, and among literary peo¬ 
ple, he is not known as an author till 1755. He had none 
of that precipitancy in publishing which is as often characte¬ 
ristic of ignorance as of genius. What is remarkable, his 
first essay was not ushered into the world, craving its indul¬ 
gence and protection, but claiming a right to teach it. It 
was a criticism on Dr Johnson’s Dictionary; and though per¬ 
haps, not free from objection? itself, it shews faults in that 

b 


X 


LIFE OF 


work, many of which, however, are indispensible from such 
a stupendous undertaking. This criticism was accompanied 
with an Essay on the state of Literature in the different Coun¬ 
tries of Europe . 

From Mr Smith’s next work, the Theory of Men'al Senti¬ 
ments , must be dated the complection of his future life. He 
had heretofore been usefully employed; but the routine of 
a Professor’s Life is not the best calculated for enlarging the 
mind, nor is his drudgery always compatible with favourite 
schemes of study and research. During the long period of 
thirteen years, he had applied himself sedulously to the busi¬ 
ness of his class; and with what success, we may judge from 
the work under consideration, much of which was detailed 
in his prelections. But now a larger and more brilliant pro¬ 
spect was opening before him; an oportunity of extending 
his sphere of observation by travelling, and his knowledge 
by the conversation of learned men. 

The following letter from Mr Hume to Mr Smith, soon 
after the publication of his Theory, is so strongly marked 
with that easy and affectionate pleasantry which distinguished 
Mr Hume’s epistolary correspondence, that we must give it 
a place in this Memoir. It is dated from London, 12 April, 
1759. 

“ I give you thanks for the agreeable present of your The- 
“ ory. Wedderburn and I made presents of our copies to 
“ such of our acquaintances as we thought good judges, and 
“ proper to spread the reputation of the book. I sent one 
“ to the duke of Argyle, to Lord Lyttleton, Horace Walpole, 
“ Soame Jennyns, and Burke, an Irish gentleman, who wrote 
“ lately a very pretty treatise on the Sublime. Millar de- 
“ sired my permission to send one in your name to Dr War- 
t( burton. I have delayed writing to you till I could tell you 
“ something of the success of the book, and could prognos- 
“ ticate with some probability, whether it should be finally 
<( damned to oblivion, or should be registered in the temple 
“ of immortality. Though it has been published only a few 
“ weeks, I think there appear already such strong symptoms. 


THE AUTHOR. 


XI 


« that I can .almost venture to foretell its fate. It is in short 
« this—But I have been interrupted in my letter by a fool- 
« ish impertinent visit of one who has lately come from Scot- 
et land. He tells me that the University of Glasgow intend 
« to declare Rouet’s office vacant, upon his going abroad with 
« lord Hope. I question not but you will have our friend 
« Ferguson in your eye, in case another project for procur- 
« ing him a place in the University of Edinburgh should fail. 
« Ferguson has very much polished and improved his Trea- 
« tise on Refinement, and with some amendments it will 
“ make an admirable book, and discovers an elegant and a 
« singular genius. The Epigoniad, I hope, will do; but it 
« is somewhat up-hill work. As I doubt not but you con- 
« suit the reviews sometimes at present, you will see in the 
« Critical Review a letter upon that poem; and I desire 
“ you to employ your conjectures in finding out the Author, 
« Let me see a sample of your skill in knowing hands by 
w your guessing at the person. I am afraid of Lord Kame’s 
« Law Tracks. A man may as well think of making a fine 
« sauce by a mixture of wormwood and aloes, as an agreea- 
«< ble composition by joining metaphysics and Scotch law. 
« However, the book, I believe, has merit; though few peo- 
«< pie will take the pains of diving into it. But, to return 
« to your book, and its success in this town, I must tell you 

t< _A plague of interruption! I ordered myself to be denied; 

<c and yet here is one that has broke in upon me again. He 
«< is a man of letters, and we have had a good deal of literary 
« conversation. You told me that you was curious of literary 
“ anecdotes, and therefore I shall inform you of a few that 
« have come to my knowledge. I believe I have mentioned 
<c to you already Helvetius’s book De l’Esprit. It is worth 
“ your reading, not for its philosophy, which I do not highly- 
« value, but for its agreeable composition. I had a letter 
« from him a few days ago, wherein he tells me that my name 
« was much oftener in the manuscript, but that the Censor 
« of books at Paris obliged him to strike it out. Voltaire 
« has lately published a small work called Candide, ou 1 Op-. 

b 2 


LIFE OF 


sdi 

u timisme. I shall give you a detail of it—But what is ali 
“ this to my book? say you.—My dear Mr Smith, have pa~ 
“ tience: Compose yourself to tranquility: shew yourself a 
“ philosopher in practice as well as profession: think on the 
u emptiness, and rashness, and futility of the common judg- 
“ ments of men: how little they are regulated by reason in 
“ any subject, much more in philosophical subjects, which so 
i( far exceed the comprehension of the vulgar. 

-“ Non si quid turbida Roma 

“ Ekvet, accedas: examenve improbum in ilia 
“ Castiges trutina: nec te quaesiveris extra.” 

“ A wise man’s kingdom is his own breast; or, if he ever 
“ looks farther, it will only be to the judgment of a select few, 
“ who are free from prejudices, and capable of examining 
« his work. Nothing indeed can be a stronger presumption 
€S of falsehood than the approbation of the multitude; and 
(( Phocion, you know, always suspected himself of some blun- 
“ djr when he was attended with the applauses of the populace. 

“ Supposing, therefore, that you have duly prepared your- 
“ self for the worst by all these reflections, I proceed to tell you 
« the melancholy news, that your book has been very unfor- 
“ tunate; for the public seem disposed to applaud it extreme- 
“ ly. It was looked for by the foolish people with some im- 
« c patience; and the mob of literati are beginning already to 
“ be very loud in its praises. Three bishops called yester- 
“ day at Millar’s shop in order to buy copies, and to ask 
“ questions about the author. The bishop of Peterborough 
“ said he had passed the evening in a company where he 
“ heard it extolled above all books in the world. The Duke 
“ of Argyle is more decisive than he uses to be, in its favour. 
“ I suppose he either considers it as an exotic,,or thinks the 
“ author will be serviceable to him in the Glasgow elections. 
“ Lord Lyttleton says, that Robertson and Smith and Bower 
“ are the glories of English literature. Oswald protests he 
“ does not know whether he has reaped more instruction or 
“ entertainment from it. But you may easily judge what 
“ reliance can be put on his judgment, who has been engaged 



THE AUTHOR. 


xiii 

** all his life in public business, and who never sees any faults 
“ in his friends. Millar exults and brags that two thirds of the 
“ edition are already sold, and that he is now sure of success. 
“ You see what a son of the earth that is, to value books 
“ only by the profit they bring him. In that view, I believe 
M it may prove a very good book. 

“ Charles Townsend, who passes for the cleverest fellow 
“ in England, is so taken with the performance, that he said 
“ to Oswald he would put the Duke of Buccleugh under the 
u author’s care, and would make it worth his while to accept 
“ of that charge. As soon as I heard this, I called on him 
“ twice, with a view of talking with him about the matter, 
“ and of convincing him of the propriety of sending that 
e< young nobleman to Glasgow: for I could not hope, that 
“ he could offer you any terms which would tempt you to 
“ renounce your professorship. But I missed him. Mr. 
“ Townsend passes for being a little uncertain in his resolu- 
“ tions; so perhaps you need not build much on his sally. 

“ In recompence for so many mortifying things, which 
“ nothing but truth could have extorted from me, and which 
“ I could easily have multiplied to a greater number, I doubt 
cx not but you are so good a Christian as to return good for 
“ evil; and to flatter my vanity by telling me, that all the godly 
cc in Scotland abuse me for my account of John Knox and 
“ the Reformation. I suppose you are glad to see my paper 
(< end, and that I am obliged to conclude with 

<( Your humble servant, 

“ David Hume.” 

For the great change in his situation, Mr Smith was indebt¬ 
ed to the Hon. Charles Townsend, who had been so much de¬ 
lighted by reading his Theory of Moral Sentiments, that he 
instantly declared to Smith’s friend, Mr Oswald, his intention 
of putting the young Duke of Buccleugh under the author’s 
care*. It was thought that he meant only to send him to 
Glasgow on purpose to attend his lectures; but it afterwards 


* Charles Townsend had married the Duchess of Buccleugh. 


XIV 


LIFE OF 


appeared that his views were more extensive, for, in 176S, 
he sent him an invitation to accompany his ward on his travels. 

The reception his Moral Sentiments met with, introduced 
him, on his arrival in London, to the acquaintance of the 
first characters in the literary and fashionable circles. Its 
praises had been so successfully sounded by the Duke of Ar- 
gyle, Lord Lyttleton, and some of his old Scotch friends, 
that in a short time the impression was bought up. The first 
edition was contained in one volume ; but the encouragement 
it had met with induced the author to make so many editions 
that it afterwards consisted of two. 

To this work he appended the Essay on the Formation of 
Language. 

The terms on which Mr Smith was engaged to act as tra¬ 
velling tutor to the young Duke, were very liberal; but as 
the Session of College was not finished at the period of his 
engagement, he assembled all his students on a particular 
day, and, observing that his duty as a Professor not having 
been discharged for that year, he ordered their names to be 
read over, and returned his pupils the fees he had received. 
But at the same time, that the proficiency of his class might 
not be interrupted, he directed that the remaining part of his 
lectures should be read by a student from one of the more 
advanced classes. This was the more liberal in Mr Smith, 
as it had been remarked that he was extremely jealous of his 
lectures, and even uneasy when he observed notes of them 
taken down in his class. For this he could not well be 
blamed, as the uses to which these memorandums are ap¬ 
plied frequently tend to the prejudice of the lecturer: to be 
sufficiently full, they must be written with a haste which 
preludes any thing like accuracy, and, if shewn about in this 
state, the errors are as likely to be imputed to the original 
as to the copy, 

The period during which Mr Smith was a Professor, must 
be acknowledged, as he himself stiled it, the most useful, if 
not the most brilliant of his life.. For thirteen years he had 
directed the minds of a numerous class of scholars to the im- 


THE AUTHOR. 


X? 

portant study of Political Economy, which had not before 
his time been deemed essential to a course of Moral Philo¬ 
sophy, or was at least slightly treated as such. By his col¬ 
leagues he was treated with a respect that approached to awe; 
and his abilities and reputation did not a little contribute to 
awaken in them a desire of obtaining the applause of their 
countrymen as he had done. Of their admiration of his ta¬ 
lents and respect for his character as a man, an unequivocal 
testimony will be seen in a subsequent page. 

The reputation of Mr Smith, as a Professor, was buiit on 
a very solid foundation. From his youth he had been a hard 
student: during his stay at Oxford, he had read and digested 
more than most young men of his time. His residence there, 
by polishing his pronunciation and modes of expression, gave 
him an advantage over most of his countrymen, who may 
be said to use one language in conversation, and another in 
lecturing; and the difference between the written and spoken, 
language of the country must have been greater in his time 
than at present. Another great advantage of his early edu¬ 
cation, was his complete knowledge of the classics, which 
is more attended to in the English than in the Scotch Uni¬ 
versities, in which metaphysics take the lead of every other 
branch of education. His classical learning, added to his skill 
in mathematics and modern languages, procured him a high 
character on his first arrival in Glasgow, which his subsequent 
attainments rendered every day still more respectable. 

Having left Glasgow, Mr Smith, proceeded to London, 
and from thence with his charge to Paris*, where they staid 
only a few days, Thoulouse being fixed upon as their chief 
place of residence during their stay on the Continent. From 
Paris Mr Smith sent the following resignation of his profes¬ 
sorship, to the Rector of Glasgow College, the Right Hon. 
Thomas Miller, Esq. his Majesty’s Advocate for Scotland: 

* Mr Dugald Stewart ha3 here fallen into a trifling error, in saying they 
did not leave London till March 17G4: whereas Mr Smith’s letter is dated con¬ 
siderably earlier. 


XVI 


LIFE OF 


« My Lord, 

“ I take this first opportunity, after my arrival in this place, 
< £ which was not till yesterday, to resign my office into the 
hands of your Lordship, of the Dean of Faculty, of the 
“ Principle of the College, and of all my other most respecta- 
** ble and worthy colleagues. Into your and their hands, 
<c therefore, I do resign my office of Professor of Moral Phi- 
cf losophy in the University of Glasgow, and in the College 
<c thereof, with all the emoluments, privileges, and advantages 
“ which belong to it. I reserve, however, my right to the 
f€ salary for the current half year which commenced at the 
“ I Oth of October, for one part of my salary, and at Martinmas 
“ last for another; and I desire that this salary may be paid 
“ to the gentleman who does that part of my duty which I 
<e was obliged to leave undone, in the manner agreed on be- 
tween my very worthy colleagues and me before we parted. 
“ I never was more anxious for the good of the College than 
<( at this moment; and I sincerely wish, that whoever is my 
“ successor may not only do credit to the office by his abili- 
M tics, but be a comfort to the very excellent men with whom 
“ h e is likely to spend his life, by the probity of his heart 
** and the goodness of his temper. 

“ I have the honour to be, my Lord, &c. 

“ Paris, 14 Feb. 1764-.” 

His Lordship having transmitted the above to the Profes¬ 
sors, the following acknowledgement was entered in the mi¬ 
nutes of the Faculty: 

“ The meeting accept of Dr Smith’s resignation in terms 
c< of the above letter, and the office of Professor of Moral 
<( Philosophy in this University is therefore hereby declared 
<( to be vacant. The University, at the same time, cannot 
“ help expressing their sincere regret at the removal of Dr 
ct Smith, whose distinguished probity, and amiable qualities, 
“ procured him the esteem and affection of his colleagues; 
“ whose uncommon genius, great abilities, and extensivelearn- 
“ mg, did so much honour to this society. His elegant and 
“ ingenious Theory of Moral Sentiments having recommend- 


THE AUTHOR. 


XVII 


- ed him to the esteem of men of taste and literature through¬ 
-out Europe; his happy talents in illustrating abstracted 

- subjects, and faithful assiduity in communicating useful 

- knowledge, distinguished him as a Professor, and at once 

- afforded the greatest pleasure and the most important in- 

- struction to the youth under his care. 

Signed, - Geo. Muirhead, Preses . 

« Joseph Black, CL Univ . 

« 1st March , 1764.” 

At Thoulouse they remained for eighteen months. Of 
Mr Smith’s pursuits during this long period, no memorial has 
been discovered. Mr Dugald Stewart remarks, that he was 
not fond of writing letters; and if he kept no journal, the 
proficiency he made can only be inferred from his works, in 
which, accordingly, we find many notices and acute remarks 
on the government and commerce of France. There is some¬ 
thing in a new country, and a new people, peculiarly inte¬ 
resting to a curious mind; and they may lead to inquiries, 
and direct the judgment, though their influence be not al¬ 
ways visible to the world. 

The rank of his pupil, and the friendship of Mr Hume, 
were the means of introducing him to the first circles of fa¬ 
shion and literature in France. Having finished their pro¬ 
posed stay at Thoulouse, they proceeded to Geneva, where 
they remained a short time, and thence returned to Paris, 
their tour having comprehended the southern provinces of 
the kingdom. 

- It was in this tour (says his French translator and bio¬ 
grapher, Gamier) that Smith collected the information re¬ 
specting the interior of the country, which we find in his 
“ Wealth of Nations;” because his scrupulous adherence to 
truth would not allow him to quote any person’s observations 
but his own, and it is this which gives so much weight to all 
those reasonings which he deduces from them. It is almost 
always in his native country that he collects the facts which 
he advances. If he takes, for instance, an University, it is 
Oxford (book 5, chap. 1, sect. 3): if a Parliament-city, it is 

c 


xviii LIFE OF 

Thoulouse (id. sect. 2): if a Calvinistic Church, it is Geneva 
(id. sect. 3).—At ail these places he had resided , 1 ” he adds. 
« But when he has occasion to speak, en passant , on the pro¬ 
portion that French wealth bears to English, although he 
had resided in France three entire years, and had observed 
every thing with the clearness and penetration which he car¬ 
ries into all his discussions, yet he does not decide affirma¬ 
tively on this very complex question, &c.” 

At Paris, Turgot, Ouesnai, Necker, d’Alembert, Helve- 
tius, Marmontel, and Madame Riccoboni, were enumerated 
among his friends: nor must the family of Rochefoucault be 
omitted in the list of the good and great, whom literature 
and kindness attached to him during the ten months he spent 
on this visit. 

The advantage he enjoyed in the conversation of Turgot, 
Quesnai, and Necker, cannot easily be calculated: a compa¬ 
rison of their opinions on Political Ecomomy, with his, will 
perhaps afford the clearest light on this subject. 

Much profit as Mr Smith undoubtedly derived from his 
stay abroad, it was not without some alloy. After his return 
home, his opinions on literary subjects were observed to be 
very much influenced by the decisions of the French school. 
He was not, it was said, an admirer of Shakespear; and pre¬ 
ferred the Eclogues of Virgil, and the Aminta of Tasso, to 
the Gentle Shepherd of Ramsay: in short, difficulty of exe¬ 
cution atoned to him for want of nature or genius. He re¬ 
garded the Mahomet of Voltaire as the summit of dramatic 
excellence. 

ProfessoH Stewart remarks, that his predilection for the 
French theatre made him prefer rhyme to blank verse in tra¬ 
gedy, and even in comedy. This theory seems to put both 
tragedy and comedy at as great a distance as possible from 
the real language of life. There appears to be no sufficient 
reason why rhyme or blank verse should be deemed essen¬ 
tial, either to tragedy or comedy. We are accustomed to 
verse in tragedy, but not in comedy, for this there seems as 
little reason, only it is the practice of our dramatic writers. 


THE author. 


XIX 


As it is the province of the drama to exhibit human actions 
as closely as possible, the language employed ought likewise 
to be what we could suppose the characters to use in real 
life; and either rhyme or blank verse is a great impediment 
to this. Let any impartial observer, for instance, peruse 
the story of Joseph and his Brethren as related in Scripture, 
and judge whether the dialogue would be improved by doing 
it into verse*; let him compare it with the verse translations, 
and paraphrases of it, in any language (and he will find it in 
most); and then let him pronounce which is the superior in 
point of effect—whether the features of the exquisite ori¬ 
ginal are not barbarised by every succeeding effort to mend 
and improve them. Other reasons may no doubt be assigned 
for this; but most people will allow, that verse is not the 
least of them. 

Though Mr Smith’s residence in France certainly strength¬ 
ened and confirmed his prejudice in favour of rhyme, he was 
well known to entertain similar sentiments at a much earlier 
period of life. Of this Boswell, in his Life of Dr Johnson, 
gives rather a curious instance.—“ He (Johnson) enlarged 
“ very convincingly upon the excellence of rhyme over blank 
“ verse in English poetry. I mentioned to him, that Dr 
“ Adam Smith, in his lectures upon composition in tho 
“ College of Glasgow, had entertained the same opinion 
“ strenuously, and I repeated some of his arguments. To 
i( which Johnson replied—Sir, I was once in company with. 
“ Smith, and we did not take to each other; but had I 
t( known that he loved rhyme as much as you tell me he 
“ does, I should have hugged him f 

On Mr Smith’s return to England in 1766, he spent three 
years in London with the Duke of Buccleugh, who (accord¬ 
ing to his Grace’s own words to Mr Stewart) loved and 
respected him, not only for his great talents, but for evei^ 


* It is curious to observe how Josephus has bedizened the story with his 
rhetoric. Through the whole, he has scarcely preserved one simple trait of 
nature. 

f Vol. I. page 232. 


XX 


tlPE O* 


private virtue. His next residence was at Kirkaldy, where* 
eased from the constant fatigues of travelling and fashiona¬ 
ble life, he sat down under the shade of his native village 
trees, to renew the friendships of his youth. 7 he salary 
allpwed him for acting as travelling tutor to the Duke of 
Buccleugh, being still continued, enabled him to live in a 
style of ease and affluence; and the company of his mother, 
and his old school-fellows, must have formed a society pe¬ 
culiarly gratifying to him, who, amid the gaiety and dissi¬ 
pation of Paris and London, had preserved his manners and 
habits in their original simplicity. The force of old asso¬ 
ciations could not be lost upon him, who reckoned Sympa¬ 
thy the test of moral approbation. His mother, indeed, al¬ 
ways possessed the warmest place in his affections; and a re¬ 
mark by an anonymous writer has been confirmed by the 
testimony of an old friend of the Doctor, that one of the 
nearest avenues to his heart was by his mother. 

Some of his innocent peculiarities are still recollected by 
the old inhabitants of the place; and among them, his fre¬ 
quent fits of absence, which the neighbouring rustics regard¬ 
ed alternately as proofs of lunacy and philosophy, and, to 
his intimate friends, were often the means of raising a laugh 
at his expense during their tea parties. 

The vigour of his mind, in this comparative state of ob¬ 
scurity, was, however, intensely employed. For about twen¬ 
ty years of the most valuable part of his life, his almost un¬ 
divided attention had been devoted to inquiries respecting 
the nature and causes of the wealth of nations; and it was 
in his retirement at Kirkaldy, that he found time to arrange 
and comment upon the facts and observations he had col¬ 
lected. During his residence in Glasgow, and his stay on 
the Continent, he had amassed a vast collection of mate¬ 
rials; his conversation with the most celebrated foreign e- 
conomists had corrected and modified what he found amiss 
in his own statements; and nothing was now wanting but 
leisure to correct and polish for the press: and the ten years 
of his solitude he employed for this purpose. 


THE AUTHOR, 




There are few original thinkers, wlio have not in their 
time been impeached with stealing the doctrines of others. 
Dr Smith has been accused of adopting the systems of Count 
Verri, Dean Tucker, and others, and of having borrowed 
the principal illustrations of his work from the French col¬ 
lection sur les Arts ct Metiers” but his cause has been 
ably supported by Mr Stewart, and he is now universally al¬ 
lowed to deserve the chief praise, or the chief blame, of 
propagating a system, which tends to confound national 
wealth with national prosperity. 

After the publication of his great work, he seems to have 
rested from his literary labours, as nothing among his post¬ 
humous works has contributed greatly to enlarge his reputa¬ 
tion. They seem chiefly to be parts of works which he did 
not live to finish, and some of them to have been composed 
anterior to the publication of his two great works. The His¬ 
tory of Astronomy, in particular, must have been written 
during his professorship, as it is mentioned in a College ex¬ 
ercise by his successor, Mr Arthur, then a young man. 

The sale of the “ Wealth of Nations” was not at first, 
as might be expected, very rapid. A work of imagination 
may become suddenly popular, but a book on a deep and ab¬ 
stract subject must win its way gradually into notice and re¬ 
putation. It is said, that an observation of Mr Fox, in the 
House of Commons, contributed very essentially to bring it 
into notice*. This might be the case; but there can be no 
doubt, that without such a recommendation, the work would 
eventually have arisen into the celebrity it has universally 
attained. 

An anecdote related by Boswell, in his Life of Dr John¬ 
son, may be mentioned here; both as it is extremely cha¬ 
racteristic of the strong manner in which that great man 
used to deliver his sentiments, and, at the same time, forci¬ 
bly repels an objection which some might urge against Dr 


* “ As my learned friend, Dr Adam Smith, says, the way for a nation, as 
Well as for an individual, to be rich, is for both to live within their income.” 


It XII 


LIFE OF 


Smith’s work.—When it was just published, Sir John Prin¬ 
gle had observed to Boswell, that Dr Smith, who had never 
been in trade, could not be expected to write well on that 
subject, any more than a lawyer upon physic. To this John¬ 
son replied: “ He is mistaken, Sir. A man who has never 
u been engaged in trade himself may undoubtedly write well 

on trade; and there is nothing which requires more to be 

illustrated by philosophy than trade does. As to mere 
<c wealth, that is to say, money, it is clear that one nation, 
u or one individual, cannot increase its store but by making 
i( another poorer; but trade procures what is more valuable, 
<s the reciprocation of the peculiar advantages of different 
iC countries. A merchant seldom thinks of any but his own 
cc trade. To write a good book upon it, a man must have ex- 
u tensive views. It is not necessary to have practised, to 
ec write well on a subject There is another reason for 
mentioning this anecdote here. It has been affirmed that 
Johnson took every opportunity of undervaluing the works 
of Smith. Had this actually been the case, he would in all 
probability have taken no trouble to repel Sir John Pringle’s 
objection. 

In the year 1776 he repaired to London, having been no¬ 
minated one of ;the Commissioners of the Customs in Scot¬ 
land, by the interest of the Duke of Buccleugh and Lord 
Loughborough, who still continued the friendship he had 
formed with him when a young man. On being appointed 
to this office, he offered to resign the annuity of j£300 
granted him for superintending the education of the Duke; 
but this offer was refused. He had now, in consequence, 
about <*£800 yearly, an income amply sufficient for the fru¬ 
gality of his life, though scarcely for the benevolence of his 
disposition. 

He spent much of his time, during this visit to London, 
in the literary society of Johnson, of Gibbon, of Burke, and 
of other distinguished characters, who at that same timeren-, 

* Boswell’s Life of Johnson, vol. II, page IT. 


THE AUTHOR. 


XX1U 


dered the metropolis a most desirable residence for men en¬ 
dowed with similar talents. 

Of his acquaintance with Dr Johnson, few memorials now 
exist; which is the less to be regretted, as, whatever their 
respect for each other’s abilities might be, they seem never 
,to have been on very friendly terms. The prejudices of 
Scotchmen were at this time very general against Johnson; 
and Smith is accused, and apparently with some truth, of 
having been none of the most backward in strengthening 
them. Many remarks he made in company might be ad¬ 
duced in proof of this; but it would be unfair, and unjust to 
his memory, to quote them. The truth is, there were many 
repugnant qualities in their minds, which, though hardly re¬ 
prehensible in the possessors, forbade any thing like sociable 
intercourse. Johnson was strongly attached to Oxford, with 
all its institutions; while Smith, and many others, found much 
to condemn in the constitution of their alma mater. This 
was a sufficient cause of contest, as Johnson could never bear 

any thing said against the place of his youthful education._ 

Another cause of mutual repulsion, was their different creeds 
an point of religion*. Whatever Smith’s might be, it certainly 
was not often obtruded on company; whereas Dr Johnson’s 
piety was apt to vent itself in long and unseasonable prayers, 

which frequently provoked even the best of his friends._ 

With such differences of opinion, on subjects that could not 
but often occur in the course of their meetings, it cannot be 
wondered that these were sometimes rendered unpleasant both 
to the parties and their friends. Dr Robertson, who was very 
gracious with Johnson, relates, « that the first time he saw 
“ him was at Strahan’s, when he just had an unlucky alterca- 
M tion with Adam Smith, to whom he had been so rough, that 


* It may not be improper, in this place, to quote a few lines from Gibbon, 
respecting Johnson’s bigotry.—“ If the reader will turn to the first scene of 
“ the first part of Henry the Fourth, he will see in the text of Shakespear the 
“ natural feelings of enthusiasm; and in the notes of Dr Johnson, the worlc- 
“ ings of a bigotted though vigorous mind, greedy of every pretence to hate 
“ and persecute those who dissent from his creed .”—Decline and Full of the 
Roman Empire , vol. XI. page 13, note. 


LIFE OF 


3?xJv 

« Strahan, after Smith was gone, had remonstrated with him, 
« and told him, that he (Dr Robertson) was coming soon, 
« and that he was uneasy to think he might behave in the 
« same manner to him*.” 

With the author of the Decline and Fall of the Roman 
Empire he was intimately acquainted; and the public men¬ 
tion made of him by that acute historian is not to be account¬ 
ed the meanest tribute of respect which he received from 
contemporary authorsf. 

Mr Stewart has quoted some lines addressed to Sir Joshua 
Reynolds by Dr Barnard, in which the characteristic fea¬ 
tures of Smith, and his principal literary friends, are well 
discriminated: 

“ If I have thoughts, and can’t express ’em, 

* i Gibbon shall teach me how to dress ’em 
“ In words select and terse: 

“ Jones teach me modesty and Greek, 

M Smith how to think, Burke how to speak,* 

“ And Beauclerc to converse.” 

Of these characters, the best distinguished are those of 
Smith and Beauclerc; they are, indeed, very happily ex¬ 
pressed. That of Jones is, however, extremely defective: 
his modesty was indeed great, but it ought not to have ex¬ 
cluded his almost universal acquirements; and his Greek 
gives us but a poor notion of his skill in twenty-four lan¬ 
guages, many of which he is said to have studied critically. 

During Dr Smith’s last stay in London, a circumstance 
took place, in which, as his name has been implicated, it 
might be deemed improper to take no notice.—William Julius 
Mickle, a countryman of his, and a scholar, had dedicated 
his translation of the Lusiad of Camoensto the Duke ofBuc- 
clcugh, in the expectation, it would appear, of receiving a 
suitable recompence. This, for some cause or other, was not 

* Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. II. page 252. 

f “ On this interesting subject, the Progress of Society in Europe, a strong 
“ ray of philosophic light has broke from Scotland in our own times; and it 
“ is with private, as well as public regard, that I repeat the names of Hume, 
“ Robertson, and Adam Smith.”—i)ed<7te and Fall , vol. XI. page 292, note. 


THE AUTHOR. 


XXV 


granted. The dedication had never been solicited by the 
Duke, who cannot reasonably be blamed for withholding 
what he had neither promised nor given hopes to expect. 
But Mickle thought otherwise; and as the imagination of a 
poet has something of hypochondriacism in it, he instantly 
concluded that Smith, some of whose positions he had en¬ 
deavoured to controvert in the preliminary dissertation to the 
Lusiad, had intercepted the favours destined for him. How¬ 
ever unjustifiable and ungenerous such a supposition may ap¬ 
pear, the biographer of Mickle has not hesitated to apply it 
to Smith, whose amiableness and integrity no candid person 
can imagine would be warped by a discussion, the object of 
which was truth. Nothing can be more certain, however, 
than that Mickle fancied himself injured; and on the death 
of Smith he wrote some verses, the illiberality of which can¬ 
not be justified, even by the vexations and disappointments 
that marked the life of this ill-fated man of genius*. 

In the course of the year 1778 he removed to Edinburgh, 
to discharge the duties of his office, which he performed 
with the utmost scrupulousness, often examining accounts 
minutely before he affixed his name, though his signature was 
a mere matter of form. Engaged in such a train of business, 
it cannot be supposed that the narrative of the last twelve 
years of his life abound in materials capable of raising much 
interest, his library forming the chief source of his amuse¬ 
ment when unemployed in his office. In the selection of this 
he had been particularly careful, and was even attentive to 
the external decoration. The late Mr William Smellie of E- 
dinburgh relates, that the first time he happened to be in his 
library, as Mr Smith observed him looking at the books with 
some degree of curiosity, and perhaps surprise, for most of 
the volumes were elegantly, and some of them superbly bound; 
“ You must have remarked,” he said, « that I am a beau in' 
“ nothing but my books.” This library, with the rest of his 


* It is a pity that these verses found their way into the Poetical Register, 
otherwise a very respectable work. Even the name of Mickle will not give 
reputation to a wretched effusion. 


d 


2XY1 


LIFE OV 


property, he left to his heir, David Douglas, Esq. son of Co¬ 
lonel Douglas of Strathendry, his cousin german. 

His household affairs were at this time superintended by 
Miss Douglas, the sister of his heir, his mother being now 
too old for much exertion, and rather requiring the atten¬ 
tions of friendship, than capable herself of rendering them. 
In the bosom of this small society he passed many years, in 
a state of primeval happiness and simplicity; almost the only 
persons he entertained, were his old friends and literary ac¬ 
quaintances, who generally met at his house on Sundays, and 
supped with him. Dr Black and Dr Hutton, his executors 
and most intimate friends, were usually of these parties; and 
though his religious tenets were by most people regarded as 
scarcely orthodox, an opinion which his intimacy with Mr 
Hume strengthened, and probably at first suggested, yet many 
of the brightest ornaments of the Church of Scotland visited 
at his house, and partook of his frugal repasts. Of the cler¬ 
gy in general he had very high notions; and he was often 
heard to say, that were it not for them, he did not conceive 
how a gentleman could pass his time in the country. 

Although retired from the bustle of public life, and in¬ 
attentive to those tricks by which literary and honorary dis¬ 
tinctions are too often acquired, he was, in 1787, elected 
Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow, a distinction 
which his friend Mr Burke afterwards enjoyed. To this pub¬ 
lic mark of the kind remembrance of the Faculty, and good¬ 
will and respect of the students, he returned an acknowledg¬ 
ment, equally modest and dignified. u No preferment could 
“ have given me so much real satisfaction. No man can owe 
“ greater obligations to a society, than I do to the University 
(( of Glasgow. They educated me; they sent me to Oxford. 
“ Soon after my return to Scotland, they elected me one of 
“ their own members; and afterwards preferred me to another 
i( office, to which the abilities and virtues of the never to be 
“ forgotten Dr Hutcheson had given a superior degree of 
“ illustration. The period of thirteen years, which I spent 
(( as a member of that society, I remember as by far the 


THE AUTHOR. 


XXV11 


«* most useful, and therefore as by far the happiest and most 
« honourable period of my life: and now, after three-and- 
« twenty years absence, to be remembered in so very agreea- 
« ble manner by my old friends and protectors, gives me a 
f‘ heart-felt joy, which I cannot easily express to you.” 

His mother dying in 1784, and Miss Douglas in 1788, ren¬ 
dered the two following years of his life more melancholy 
than they would otherwise have been. They died when he 
most needed their presence and support; and although his 
mind was too strong to sink under a calamity which is the 
lot of all, yet none who have the feelings of human nature 
can be unmoved when they see that they have survived their 
best and earliest friends; those friends in particular, who are 
not so much bound to them by similarity of taste and pur¬ 
suits, as those with whom they have been brought up, and 
who are endeared to them by mutual affections and sympa¬ 
thies in domestic life. After their death he gradually de¬ 
clined in health, and died in July 1790, previously ordering 
his executors to burn all his papers, those excepted which 
form the posthumous volume of his works. 

This order was rigorously executed. And though we must 
regret the loss of his lectures on jurisprudence and natural 
religion, delivered in the University of Glasgow, and sup T 
posed to form a part of the course; yet we cannot feel so 
much concern respecting the lectures on rhetoric and belles 
lettres read in Edinburgh, both because they were composed 
much earlier in life, and they appear likewise, from the fol¬ 
lowing passage in Blair’s Lectures, to have been partly adopted 
by that writer: 

“ On this head of the General Characters of Style, par- 

ticularly the plain and the simple, and the characters of 
“ those English authors who are classed under them in this 
“ and the following lecture (18th and 19th), several ideas . 
“ have been taken from a manuscript treatise on rhetoric, 
“ part of which was shewn to me many years ago by the 
<£ learned and ingenious author. Dr Adam Smith, and which, 
" it is to be hoped, will be given by him to the public:” 


xx via 


LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 


Acute perception, and a sound judgment, distinguish all 
the works of Smith. Subsequent experience has shewn some 
of his doctrines to be rather inaccurate; but his errors do 
not in general proceed so much from the want of examining 
his materials, as from the paucity of the materials themselves. 
Whatever he treats of, he is always ingenious; and the lan¬ 
guage in which he delivers his opinions, if not remarkable 
for elegance, is well suited to his subject, plain and neat. 
His habits of deep thinking had perhaps impaired his powers 
of perceiving what is termed the sublime in writing; and the 
recluse manner in which he passed most of his time often 
hindered him from forming a correct notion of some charac¬ 
ters. The same cause, while it embarrassed his manners in 
company, made him appear distant and reserved to the world; 
a prepossession which his grave and formal manner of speak¬ 
ing was ill calculate to remove. Whatever he might seem 
to those who were not intimately acquainted with him, he 
was warm-hearted to his friends; and the general benevolence 
of his nature is attested by many acts of generosity which his 
income barely enabled him to perform: and it is not the least 
of its praise, that the good he did in this way was usually « by 
stealth.”—In fine, it may be safely asserted, that had he only 
published one volume of his numerous works, it would have 
t carried down to posterity the impression of a most ingenious, 
learned, and amiable man. 


END OF THE LIFE, 




T1IE 


THEORY 

OF 

MORAL SENTIMENTS . 


PART I. 


Of the Propriety of Action. 


Consisting of Three Sections. 


SECTION I. 

OF THE SENSE OF PROPRIETY. 


—— 

4 

CHAPTER I. 

Of Sympathy. 

HoW selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evident¬ 
ly some principles in his nature, which interest him in the for¬ 
tune of others, and render their happiness necessary to him, 
though he derives nothing from it except the pleasure of 
seeing it. Of this kind is pity or compassion, the emotion 
which we feel for the misery of others, when we either see 




30 


OF PROriUETY; 


Part I. 


it, or are made to conceive it in a very lively manner. That 
we often derive sorrow from the sorrow of others, is a mat¬ 
ter of fact too obvious to require any instances to prove it \ 
for this sentiment, like all the other original passions of hu¬ 
man nature, is by no means confined to the virtuous and 
humane, though they perhaps may feel it with the most ex¬ 
quisite sensibility. The greatest ruffian, the most hardened 
violator of the laws of society, is not altogether without it. 

As we have no immediate experience of what other men 
feel, we can form no idea of the manner in which they are 
affected, but by conceiving what we ourselves should feel in 
the like situation. Though our brother is upon the rack, 
as long as we ourselves are at our ease, our senses will never 
inform us of what he suffers. They never did, and never 
can, carry us beyond our own person, and it is by the ima¬ 
gination only that we can form any conception of what are 
his sensations. Neither can that faculty help us to this any 
other way, than by representing to us what would be our 
own, if we were in his case. It is the impressions of our 
own senses only, not those of his, which our imaginations. 
copy. By the imagination We place ourselves in his situa¬ 
tion, we conceive ourselves enduring all the same torments, 
we enter as it were into his body, and become in some mea¬ 
sure the same person with him, and thence form some idea, 
of his sensations, and even feel something wffiich, though 
weaker in degree, is not altogether unlike them. His ago¬ 
nies, when they are thus brought home to ourselves, when 
we have thus adopted and made them our own, begin at 
last to affect us, and w r e then tremble and shudder at the 
thought of what he feels. For as to be in pain or distress 
of any kind excites the most excessive sorrow, so to conceive 
or to imagine that we are in it, excites some degree of the 
same emotion, in proportion to the vivacity or dulness of 
the conception. 

T-Hat this is the source of our fellow-feeling for the mi¬ 
sery of others, that it is by changing places in fancy with 
the sufrerer, that w r e come either to conceive or to be af- 


Sect. I. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


31 


fected by what he feels, may be demonstrated by many ob¬ 
vious observations, if it should not be thought sufficiently 
evident of itself. When we see a stroke aimed and just rea¬ 
dy to fall upon the leg or arm of another person, we natu¬ 
rally shrink and draw back our own leg or our own arm; 
and when it does fall, we feel it in some measure, and are 
hurt by it as well as the sufferer. The mob, when they are 
gazing at a dancer on the slack rope, naturally writhe and 
twist and balance their own bodies, as they see him do, and 
as they feel that they themselves must do, if in his situation. 
Persons of delicate fibres, and a weak constitution of body, 
complain, that in looking on the sores and ulcers which are 
exposed by beggars in the streets, they are apt to feel an 
itching or uneasy sensation in the correspondent part of 
their own bodies. The horror which they conceive at the 
misery of those wretches, affects that particular part in them¬ 
selves more than any other; because that horror arises front 
conceiving what they themselves would suffer, if they really 
were the wretches whom they are looking upon, and if that 
particular part in themselves was actually affected in the same 
miserable manner. The very force of this conception is suf¬ 
ficient, in their feeble frames, to produce that itching or un¬ 
easy sensation complained of. Men of the most robust make 
observe, that in looking upon sore eyes they often feel a ve¬ 
ry sensible soreness in their own, which proceeds from the 
same reason; that organ being in the strongest man more 
delicate than any other part of the body is in the weak¬ 
est. 

Neither is it those circumstances only, which create pain 
or sorrow, that call forth our fellow-feeling. Whatever is 
the passion which arises from any object in the person prin¬ 
cipally concerned, an analogous emotion springs up, at the 
thought of his situation, in the breast of every attentive spec¬ 
tator. Our joy for the deliverance of those heroes of tra¬ 
gedy or romance who interest us, is as sincere as our grief 
for their distress, and our fellow-feeling with their misery is 
not more real than that with their happiness. We enter 


32 


OF PROPRIETY". 


Part I* 


into their gratitude towards those faithful friends who did 
not desert them in their difficulties; and we heartily go along 
With their resentment against those perfidious traitors who 
injured, abandoned, or deceived them. In every passion of 
which the mind of man is susceptible, the emotions of the 
by-stander always correspond to what, by bringing the case 
home to himself, he imagines should be the sentiments of 
the sufferer. 

Pity and compassion are words appropriated to signify 
our fellow-feeling with the sorrow of others. Sympathy, 
though its meaning was, perhaps, originally the same, may 
now, however, without much impropriety, be -made use of 
to denote our fellow-feeling with any passion whatever. 

Upon some occasions sympathy may seem to arise merely 
from the view of a certain emotion in another person. The 
passions, upon some occasions, may seem to be transfused 
from one man to another, instantaneously, and antecedent 
to any knowledge* of what excited them in the person prin¬ 
cipally concerned. Grief and joy, for example, strongly ex¬ 
pressed in the look and gestures of any one, at once affect 
the spectator with some degree of a like painful or agreeable 
emotion. A smiling face is, to every body that sees it, a 
cheerful object; as a sorrowful countenance, on the other 
hand, is a melancholy one. 

This, however, does not hold universally, or with regard 
to every passion. There are some passions of which the ex¬ 
pressions excite no sort of sympathy, but before we are ac¬ 
quainted with what gave occasion to them, serve rather to 
disgust and provoke us against them. The furious behaviour 
of any angry man is more likely to exasperate us against 
himself than against his enemies. As we are unacquainted 
with his provocation, we cannot bring his case home to our¬ 
selves, nor conceive any thing like the passions which it ex¬ 
cites. But we plainly see what is the situation of those with 
whom he is angry, and to what violence they may be expo¬ 
sed from so enraged an adversary. We readily, therefore, 
sympathize, with their fear or resentment, and are immedi- 


Sect. I. 


OP PROPRIETY. 


33 


ately disposed to take part against the man from whom they 
appear to be in so much danger. 

If the very appearances of grief and joy inspire us with 
some degree of the like emotions, it is because they suggest 
to us the general idea of some good or bad fortune that has 
befallen the person in whom we observe them: and in these 
passions this is sufficient to have some little influence upon 
us. The effects of grief and joy terminate in the person 
who feels those emotions, of which the expressions do not, 
like those of resentment, suggest to us the idea of any other 
person for whom we are concerned, and whose interests are 
opposite to his. The general idea of good or bad fortune, 
therefore, creates some concern for the person who has met 
with it, but the general idea of provocation excites no sym¬ 
pathy with the anger of the man who has received it. Nature, 
it seems, teaches us to be more averse to enter into this 
passion, and till informed of its cause, to be disposed rather 
to take part against it. 

Even our sympathy with the grief or joy of another, be¬ 
fore we are informed of the cause of either, is always ex¬ 
tremely imperfect. General lamentations, which express 
nothing but the anguish of the sufferer, create rather a cu¬ 
riosity to inquire into his situation, along with some disposi¬ 
tion to sympathize with him, than any actual sympathy that 
is very sensible. The first question which we ask is, What 
has befallen you? Till this be answered, though we are un¬ 
easy both from the vague idea of his misfortune, and still 
more from torturing ourselves with conjectures about what 
it may be, yet our fellow-feeling is not very considerable. 

Sympathy, therefore, does not arise so much from the 
view of the passion, as from that of the situation which ex¬ 
cites it. We sometimes feel for another, a passion of which 
he himself seems to be altogether incapable; because, when 
we put ourselves in his case, that passion arises in our breast 
from the imagination, though it does not in his from the re¬ 
ality. We blush for the impudence and rudeness of another, 
though he himself appears to have no sense of the impropri* 

E 


34 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


ety of his own behaviour; because we cannot help feeling 
with what confusion we ourselves should be covered, had we 
behaved in so absurd a manner. 

Of all the calamities to which the condition of mortality 
exposes mankind, the loss of reason appears, to those who 
have the least spark of humanity, by far the most dreadful; 
and they behold that last stage of human wretchedness with 
deeper commisseration than any other. But the poor wretch, 
who is in it, laughs and sings perhaps, and is altogether in¬ 
sensible of his own misery. The anguish which humanity 
feels, therefore, at the sight of such an object, cannot be the 
reflection of any sentiment of the sufferer. The compassion 
of the spectator must arise altogether from the consideration 
of what he himself would feel if he was reduced to the same 
unhappy situation, and, what perhaps is impossible, was at 
the same time able to regard it with his present reason and 
judgment. 

What are the pangs of a mother, when she hears the 
moanings of her infant that during the agony of disease can¬ 
not express what it feels ? In her idea of what it suffers, she 
joins, to its real helplessness, her own consciousness of that 
helplessness, and her own terrors for the unknown conse¬ 
quences of its disorder; and, out of all these, forms, for her 
own sorrow, the most complete image of misery and distress. 
The infant, however, feels only the uneasiness of the present 
instant, which can never be great. With regard to the fu¬ 
ture, it is perfectly secure, and in its thoughtlessness and want 
of foresight, possesses an antidote against fear and anxiety, 
the great tormentors of the human breast, from which reason 
and philosophy will, in vain, attempt to defend it, when it 
grows up to a man. 

We sympathize even with the dead, and overlooking what 
is of real importance in their situation, that awful'futurity 
which awaits them, we are chiefly affected by those circum¬ 
stances which strike our senses, but can have no influence 
upon their happiness. It is miserable, we think, to be de¬ 
prived of the light of the sun; to be shut out from life and 


Sect. I. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


35 


conversation; to be laid in the cold grave, a prey to corrup¬ 
tion and the reptiles of the earth; to be no more thought 
of in this world, but to be obliterated, in a little time, from 
the affections, and almost from the memory, of their dearest 
friends and relations. Surely, we imagine, we can never feel 
too much for those who have suffered so dreadful a calamity. 
The tribute of our fellow-feeling seems doubly due to them 
now, when they are in danger of being forgot by every body; 
and, by the vain honours which we pay to their memory, 
we endeavour, for our own misery, artificially to keep alive 
our melancholy remembrance of their misfortune. That our 
sympathy can afford them no consolation seems to be an ad¬ 
dition to their calamity; and to think that all we can do is 
unavailing, and that, what alleviates all other distress, the 
regret, the love, and the lamentations of their friends, can 
yield no comfort to them, serves only to exasperate our sense 
of their misery. The happiness of the dead, however, most 
assuredly, is affected by none of these circumstances; nor is 
it the thought of these things which can ever disturb the pro¬ 
found security of their repose. The idea of that dreary and 
endless melancholy which the fancy naturally ascribes to their 
condition, arises altogether from our joining to the change 
which has been produced upon them, our own consciousness 
of that change, from our putting ourselves in their situation, 
and from our lodging, if I may be allowed to say so, our own 
living souls in their inanimated bodies, and thence conceiving 
what would be our emotions in this case. It is from this very 
illusion of the imagination, that the foresight of our own dis¬ 
solution is so terrible to us, and that the idea of those circum¬ 
stances, which undoubtedly can give us no pain when we 
are dead, makes us miserable while we are alive. And from 
thence arises one of the most important principles in human 
nature, the dread of death, the great poison to the happiness, 
but the great restraint upon the injustice of mankind, which, 
while it afflicts and mortifies the individual, guards and pro** 
tects the society. 


e 2. 


36 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


CHAPTER IL 

Of the Pleasure of mutual Sympathy. 

BUT whatever may be the cause of sympathy, or however 
it may be excited, nothing pleases us more than to observe 
in other men a fellow-feeling with all the emotions of our 
own breast; nor are we ever so much shocked as by the ap¬ 
pearance of the contrary. Those who are fond of deducing 
all our sentiments from certain refinements of self-love, 
think themselves at no loss to account, according to their 
own principles, both for this pleasure and this pain. Man, 
say they, conscious of his own weakness, and of the need 
which he has for the assistance of others, rejoices whenever 
he observes that they adopt his own passions, because he is 
then assured of that assistance; and grieves whenever he ob¬ 
serves the contrary, because he is then assured of their op¬ 
position. But both the pleasure and the pain are always felt 
so instantaneously, and often upon such frivolous occasions, 
that it seems evident that neither of them can be derived 
from any such self-interested consideration. A man is mor¬ 
tified when, after having endeavoured to divert the company, 
he looks round and sees that nobody laughs at his jests but 
himself. On the contrary, the mirth of company is highly 
agreeably to him, and he regards this correspondence of their 
sentiments with his own as the greatest applause. 

Neitpier does his pleasure seem to arise altogether from 1 
the additional vivacity which his mirth may receive from sym¬ 
pathy with theirs, nor his pain from the disappointment he 
meets with when he misses this pleasure; though both the one 
and the other, no doubt, do in some measure. When we have, 
read a book or poem so often that we can no longer find any 
amusement in reading it by ourselves, we can still take plea¬ 
sure in reading it to a companion. To him it has all the 
graces of novelty; we enter into a surprise and admiration 


Sect. X. OF PROPRIETY. 37 

which it naturally excites in him, but which it is no longer 
capable of exciting in us; we consider all the ideas which it 
presents, rather in the light in which they appear to him, 
than in that in which they appear to ourselves, and we are 
amused by sympathy with his amusement, which thus enliv¬ 
ens our own. On the contrary, we should be vexed if he 
did not seem to be entertained with it, and we could no long¬ 
er take any pleasure in reading it to him. It is the same 
case here. The mirth of the company, do doubt, enlivens 
our own mirth; and their silence, no doubt, disappoints us. 
But though this may contribute both to the pleasure which 
we derive from the one, and to the pain which we feel from 
the other, it is by no means the sole cause of either; and this 
correspondence of the sentiments of others with our own, ap¬ 
pears to be a cause of pleasure, and the want of it a cause of 
pain, which cannot be accounted for in this manner. The 
sympathy, which my friends express with my joy, might in¬ 
deed give me pleasure by enlivening that joy: but that which 
they express with my grief could give me none, if it served 
only to enliven that grief. Sympathy, however, enlivens 
joy and alleviates grief. It enlivens joy by presenting another 
source of satisfaction; and it alleviates grief by insinuating 
into the heart, almost the only agreeable sensation which it is 
at that time capable of receiving. 

It is to be observed, accordingly, that we are still more 
anxious to communicate to our friends our disagreeable, than 
our agreeable passions, that we derive still more satisfaction 
from their sympathy with the former than from that with the 
latter, and that we are still more shocked by the want of it. 

How are the unfortunate relieved when they have found 
out a person to whom they can communicate the cause of 
their sorrow; Upon his sympathy they seem so disburthen 
themselves of a part of their distress: he is not improperly 
said to share it with them. He not only feels a sorrow of 
the same kind with that which they feel, but as if he had 
derived a part of it to himself, what he feels seems to alle¬ 
viate the weight of what they feel. Yet by relating their 


38 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part i: 


misfortunes, they in some measure renew their grief. They 
awaken in their memory the remembrance of those circum¬ 
stances which occasion their affliction. Their tears accord¬ 
ingly flow faster than before, and they are apt to abandon 
themselves to all the weakness of sorrow. They take plea¬ 
sure, however, in all this, and, it is evident, are sensibly re¬ 
lieved by it; because the sweetness of his sympathy more 
than compensates the bitterness of that sorrow, which in or¬ 
der to excite this sympathy, they had thus enlivened and re¬ 
newed. The crudest insult, on the contrary, which can be 
offered to the unfortunate, is to appear to make light of their 
calamities. To seem not to be affected with the joy of our 
companions, is but want of politeness; but not to wear a se¬ 
rious countenance when they tell us their afflictions, is real 
and gross inhumanity. 

Love is an agreeable; resentment, a disagreeable passion; 
and accordingly we are not half so anxious that our friends 
should adopt our friendships, as that they should enter into 
our resentments. We can forgive them though they seem 
to be little affected with the favours which we may have re¬ 
ceived, but lose all patience if they seem indifferent about 
the injuries which may have been done to us: nor are we 
half so angry with them for not entering into our gratitude, 
as for not sympathizing with our resentment. They can ea¬ 
sily avoid being friends to our friends, but can hardly avoid 
being enemies to those with whom we are at variance. We 
seldom resent their being at enmity with the first, though 
Upon that account we may sometimes affect to make an awk¬ 
ward quarrel with them; but we quarrel with them in good 
earnest if they live in friendship with the last. The agreea¬ 
ble passions of love and joy, can satisfy and support the heart 
without any auxiliary pleasure. The bitter and painful emo¬ 
tions of grief and resentment, more strongly require the heal¬ 
ing consolation of sympathy. 

As the person who is principally interested in any event 
is pleased with our sympathy, and hurt by the want of it, so 
we, too, seem to be pleased when we are able to sympathize 


Sect. I. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


S3 

with him, and to be hurt when we are unable to do so. We 
run not only to congratulate the successful, but to condole 
with the afflicted 5 and the pleasure which we find in the con¬ 
versation of one whom in all the passions of his heart we can 
entirely sympathize with, seems to do more than compensate 
the painfulness of that sorrow with which the view of his 
situation affects us. On the contrary, it is always disagreea¬ 
ble to feel that we cannot sympathize with him, and instead 
of being pleased with this exemption from sympathetic pain, 
it hurts us to find that we cannot share his uneasiness. If 
we hear a person loudly lamenting his misfortunes, which 
however, upon bringing the case home to ourselves, we feel, 
can produce no such violent effect upon us, we are shocked 
at his grief; and, because we cannot enter into it, call it pu¬ 
sillanimity and weakness. It gives us the spleen, on the o- 
ther hand, to see another too happy, or too much elevated, 
as we call it, with any little piece of good fortune. We are dis¬ 
obliged even with his joy; and, because we cannot go along 
with it, call it levity and folly. We are even put out of hu¬ 
mour if our companions laughs louder or longer at a joke 
than we think it deserves; that is, than we feel that we our¬ 
selves could laugh at it. 


CHAPTER III. 

Of the manner in which we judge of the propriety or impropri¬ 
ety of the affections of other men , hy their concord or 
dissonance with our own. 

WHEN the original passions of the person principally con¬ 
cerned are in perfect concord with the sympathetic emotions 
of the spectator, they necessarily appear to this last just and 
proper, and suitable to their objects; and, on the contrary, 
when, upon bringing the case home to himself, he finds that 
they do not coincide with what he feels, they necessarily ap- 




40 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


pear to him unjust and improper, and unsuitable to the causes 
which excite them. To approve of the passions of another, 
therefore, as suitable to their objects, is the same thing as to 
observe that we entirely sympathize with them; and not to 
approve of them as such, is the same thing as to observe that 
we do not entirely sympathize with them. The man who 
resents the injuries that have been done to me, and observes 
that I resent them precisely as he does, necessarily approves 
of my resentment. The man whose sympathy keeps time 
to my grief, cannot but admit the reasonableness of my sor¬ 
row. He who admires the same poem, or the same picture, 
and admires them exactly as I do, must surely allow the just¬ 
ness of my admiration. He who laughs at the same joke, 
and laughs along with me, cannot well deny the propriety 
of my laughter. On the contrary, the person who, upon 
these different occasions, either feels no such emotion as that 
which I feel, or feels none that bears any proportion to mine, 
cannot avoid disapproving my sentiments on account of their 
dissonance with his own. If my animosity goes beyond what 
the indignation of my friend can correspond to; if my grief 
exceeds what his most tender compassion can go along with; 
if my admiration is either too high or too low to tally with 
his own; if I laugh loud and heartily when he only smiles, 
or, on the contrary, only smile when he laughs loud and 
heartily; in all these cases, as soon as he comes from consi¬ 
dering the object, to observe how I am affected by it, accord¬ 
ing as there is more or less disproportion between his sen¬ 
timents and mine, I must incur a greater or less degree of 
his disapprobation: and upon all occasions his own sentiments 
are the standards and measures by which he judges of mine. 

To approve of another man’s opinions is to adopt those 
opinions, and to adopt them is to approve of them. If the 
same arguments which convince you, convince me likewise, 
I necessarily approve of your conviction; and if they do not, 
I necessarily disapprove of it: neither can I possibly con¬ 
ceive that I should do the one without the other. To ap¬ 
prove or disapprove, therefore, of the opinions of others is 


Sect. I. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


41 


acknowledged, by every body, to mean no more than to ob¬ 
serve their agreement or disagreement with our own. But 
this is equally the case with regard to our approbation or 
disapprobation of the sentiments or passions of others. 

There are, indeed, some cases, in which we seem to ap¬ 
prove without any sympathy or correspondence of senti¬ 
ments, and in which, consequently, the sentiment of appro¬ 
bation would seem to be different from the perception of this 
coincidence. A little attention, however, will convince us, 
that even in these cases our approbation is ultimately founded 
upon a sympathy or correspondence of this kind. I shall 
give an instance in things of a very frivolous nature, because 
in them the judgements of mankind are less apt to be per¬ 
verted by wrong systems. We may often approve of a jest, 
and think the laughter of the company quite just and proper, 
though we ourselves do not laugh, because, perhaps, we are 
in a grave humour, or happen to have our attention engaged 
with other objects. We have learned, however, from expe¬ 
rience, what sort of pleasantry is upon most occasions capa¬ 
ble of making us laugh, and we observe that this is one of 
that kind. We approve, therefore, of the laughter of the 
company, and feel that it is natural and suitable to its object; 
because, though in our present mood we cannot easily enter 
into it, we are sensible that upon most 'occasions we should 
very heartily join in it. 

The same thing often happens with regard to all the other 
passions. A stranger passes by us in the street with all the 
marks of the deepest affliction; and we are immediately told 
that he has just received the news of the death of his father. 
It is impossible that, in this case, we should not approve of 
his grief. Yet it may often happen, without any defect of 
humanity on our part, that, so far from entering into the vio¬ 
lence of his sorrow, we should scarce conceive the first move¬ 
ments of concern upon his account. Both he and his father, 
perhaps, are entirely unknown to us, or we happen to be 
employed about other things, and do not take time to picture 
out in our imagination the different circumstances of distress 

F 


OF PROPRIETY^ 


Part I. 


42 


which must occur to him. We have learned, however, from 
experience, that such a misfortune naturally excites such a 
degree of sorrow, and we know that if we took time to con¬ 
sider his situation fully and in all its parts, we should with¬ 
out doubt most sincerely sympathize with him. It is upon 
the consciousness of this conditional sympathy, that our ap¬ 
probation of his sorrow is founded, even in those cases in 
which that sympathy does not actually take place; and the 
general rules derived from our preceding experience of what 
our sentiments would commonly correspond with, correct 
upon this, as upon many other occasions, the impropriety of 
our present emotions. 

The sentiment or affection of the heart from which any 
action proceeds, and upon which its whole virtue or vice 
must ultimately depend, may be considered under two dif¬ 
ferent aspects, or in two different relations; first, in relation 
to the cause which excites it, or the motive which gives occa¬ 
sion to it; and secondly, in relation to the end which it pro¬ 
poses, or the effect which it tends or produce. 

In the suitableness or unsuitableness, in the proportion or 
disproportion which the affection seems to bear to the cause 
or object which excites it, consists the propriety or impro¬ 
priety, the decency or ungracefulness of the consequent action. 

In the beneficial or hurtful nature of the effects which the 
affection aims at, or tends to produce, consists the merit or 
demerit of the action, the qualities by which it is entitled to 
reward, or is deserving of punishment. 

Philosophers have, of late years, considered chiefly the 
tendency of affections, and have given little attention to the 
relation which they stand in to the cause which excites them. 
In common life, however, when we judge of any person’s 
conduct, and of the sentiments which directed it, we con¬ 
stantly consider them under both these aspects. When we 
blame in another man the excesses of love, of grief, of resent¬ 
ment, we not only consider the ruinous effects which they 
tend to produce, but the little occasion which was given for 
them. The merit of his favourite, we say, is not so great, 


Sect. I. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


43 


his misfortune is not so dreadful, his provocation is not so 
extraordinary as to justify so violent a passion. We should 
have indulged, we say, perhaps, have approved of the vio¬ 
lence of his emotion, had the cause been in any respect pro¬ 
portioned to it. 

When we judge in this manner of any affection as pro¬ 
portioned or disproportioned to the cause which excites it, 
it is scarce possible that we should make use of any other 
rule or canon, but the correspondent affection in ourselves. 
If upon bringing the case home to our own breast, we find 
that the sentiments which it gives occasion to, coincide and 
tally with our own, we necessarily approve of them, as pro¬ 
portioned and suitable to their objects; if otherwise, we ne¬ 
cessarily disapprove of them, as extravagant and out of pro¬ 
portion. 

Every faculty in one man is the measure by which he 
judges of the like faculty in another. I judge of your sight 
by my sight, of your ear by my ear, of your reason by my 
reason, of your resentment by my resentment, of your love 
by my love. I neither have, nor can have, any other way of 
judging about them 


CHAPTER IV. 

The same Subject continued . 

WE may judge of the propriety or impropriety of the sen¬ 
timents of another person by their correspondence or disa¬ 
greement with our own, upon two different occasions; either, 
first, when the objects which excite them are considered 
without any peculiar relation either to ourselves, or to the 
person whose sentiments we judge of; or, secondly, when 
they are considered as peculiarly affecting one or other of us. 

1. With regard to those objects which are considered, 
without any peculiar relation either to ourselves or to the 

f 2 




44 


01? PROPRIETY* 


Part L 


person whose sentiments we judge of; wherever his senti¬ 
ments entirely correspond with our own, we ascribe to him 
the qualities of taste and good judgment. The beauty of a 
plain, the greatness of a mountain, the ornaments of a build¬ 
ing, the expression of a picture, the composition of a dis¬ 
course, the conduct of a third person, the proportions of dif¬ 
ferent quantities and numbers, the various appearances which 
the great machine of the universe is perpetually exhibiting, 
with the secret wheels and springs which produce them; all 
the general subjects of science and taste, are what we and our 
companions regard as having no peculiar relation to either 
of us. We both look at them from the same point of view, 
and we have no occasion for sympathy, or for that imaginary 
change of situations from which it arises, in order to produce, 
with regard to these, the most perfect harmony of sentiments 
and affections. If, notwithstanding, we are often differentlv 
affected, it arises either from the different degrees of atten¬ 
tion which our different habits of life allow us to give easily 
to the several parts of those complex objects, or from the 
different degrees of natural acuteness in the faculty of the 
mind, to which they are addressed. 

When the sentiments of our companion coincide with our 
own in things of this kind, which are obvious and easy, and in 
which, perhaps, we never found a single person who differed 
from us, though we, no doubt, must approve of them, yet he 
seems to deserve no praise or admiration on account of them. 
But when they not only coincide with our own, but lead and 
direct our own; when in forming them he appears to have 
attended to many things which we had overlooked, and to 
have adjusted them to all the various circumstances of their 
objects; we not only approve of them, but winder and are 
surprised at their uncommon and unexpected acuteness and 
comprehensiveness, and he appears to deserve a very high 
degree of admiration and applause. For approbation, height¬ 
ened by wonder and surprise, constitutes the sentiment which 
is properly called admiration, and of avhich applause is the 
natural expression. The decision of the man who judges 


Sect. I. 


OF F&OPRIETl. 


4 5 


that exquisite beauty is preferable to the grossest deformity* 
or that twice two are equal to four, must certainly be ap¬ 
proved of by all the world, but will not, surely, be much ad¬ 
mired. It is the acute and delicate discernment of the man 
of taste, who distinguishes the minute, and scarce percepti¬ 
ble differences of beauty and deformity, it is the compre¬ 
hensive accuracy of the experienced mathematician, who un¬ 
ravels, with ease, the most intricate and perplexed propor¬ 
tions; it is the great leader in science and taste, the man 
who directs and conducts our own sentiments, the extent 
and superior justness of whose talents astonish us with won¬ 
der and surprise, who excites our admiration, and seems to 
deserve our applause; and upon this foundation is grounded 
the greater part of the praise which is bestowed upon what 
are called the intellectual virtues. 

The utility of those qualities, it may be thought, is what 
first recommends them to us; and, no doubt, the considera¬ 
tion of this, when we come to attend to it, gives them a new 
value. Originally, however, we approve of another man's 
judgment, not as something useful, but as right, as accurate, as 
agreeable to truth and reality: and it is evident, we attribute 
those qualities to it for no other reason but because we find 
that it agrees with our own. Taste, in the same manner, is 
originally approved of, not as useful, but as just, as delicate, 
and as precisely suited to its object. The idea of the utility 
of all qualities of this kind, is plainly an after-thought, and 
not what first recommends them to our approbation, 

2. With regard to those objects, which affect in a par¬ 
ticular manner either ourselves or the person whose senti¬ 
ments we judge of, it is at once more difficult to preserve 
this harmony and correspondence, and, at the same time, 
vastly more important. My companion does not naturally 
look upon the misfortune that has befallen me, or the injury 
that has been done me, from the same point of view in which 
I consider them. They affect me much more nearly. We 
do not view them from the same station, as we do a picture, 
or a poem, or a system of philosophy, and are, therefore. 


46 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


apt to be very differently affected by them. But I can much 
more easily overlook the want of this correspondence of sen¬ 
timents, with regard to such indifferent objects as concern 
neither me nor my companion, than with regard to what in¬ 
terests me so much as the misfortune that has befallen me, 
or the injury that has been done me. Though you despise 
that picture, or that poem, or even that system of philosophy, 
which I admire, there is little danger of our quarrelling upon 
that account. Neither of us can reasonably be much interested 
about them. They ought all of them to be matters of great 
indifference to us both; so that, though our opinions may be 
opposite, our affections may still be very nearly the same. 
But it is quite otherwise with regard to those objects by which 
either you or I are particularly affected. Though your judg¬ 
ments in matters of speculation, though your sentiments in 
matters of taste, are quite opposite to mine, I can easily over¬ 
look this opposition; and, if I have any degree of temper, I 
may still find some entertainment in your conversation, even 
upon those very subjects. But if you have either no fellow- 
feeling for the misfortunes I have met with, or none that 
bears any proportion to the grief which distracts me; or if 
you have either no indignation at the injuries I have suffered, 
or none that bears any proportion to the resentment which 
transports me, we can no longer converse upon these subjects.. 
We become intolerable to one another. I can neither sup¬ 
port your company, ? nor you mine. You are confounded at 
my violence and passion, and I am enraged at your cold in¬ 
sensibility and want of feeling. 

In all such cases, that there may be some correspondence . 
of sentiments between the spectator and the person princi¬ 
pally concerned, the spectator must, first of all, endeavour, 
as much as he can, to put himself in the situation of the 
other, and to bring home to himself every little circumstance 
of distress which can possible occur to the sufferer. He must 
adopt the whole case of his companion with all its minutest 
incidents; and strive to render as perfect as possible, that 


Sect. T. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


47 


imaginary change of situation, upon which his sympathy is 
founded. 

After all this, however, the emotions of the spectator will 
still be very apt to fall short of the violence of what is felt 
by the sufferer. Mankind, though naturally sympathetic, 
never conceive, for what has befallen another, that degree 
of passion, which naturally animates the person principally 
concerned. That imaginary change of situation, uoon which 
their sympathy is founded, is but momentary. The thought 
of their own safety, the thought that they themselves are 
not really the sufferers, continually intrudes itself upon them} 
and though it does not hinder them from conceiving a pas¬ 
sion somewhat analogous to what is felt by the sufferer, 
hinders them from conceiving any thing that approaches 
to the same degree of violence. The person principally 
concerned is sensible of this, and at the same time, passion¬ 
ately desires a more complete sympathy. He longs for that 
relief which nothing can afford him but the entire concord 
of the affections of the spectators with his own. To see 
the emotions of their hearts, in every respect, beat time to 
his own, in the violent and disagreeable passions, constitutes 
his sole consolation. But he can only hope to obtain this 
by lowering his passion to that pitch in which the spectators 
are capable of going along with him. He must flatten, if 
I may be allowed to say so, the sharpness of its natural 
tone, in order to reduce it to harmony and concord with 
the emotions of those who are about him. What they 
feel, will indeed always be, in some respects, different from 
what he feels, and compassion can never be exactly the same 
with original sorrow; because the secret consciousness that 
the change of situations, from which the sympathetic senti¬ 
ment arises, is but imaginary, not only lowers it in degree, 
but in some measure, varies it in kind, and gives it a quite 
different modification. These two sentiments, however, may, 
it is evident, have such a correspondence with one another, 
as is sufficient for the harmony of society. Though they will 


48 


OF PROPRIETY, 


Part I. 


never be unisons, they may be concords, and this is all that 
is wanted or required. 

In order to produce this concord, as nature teaches the spec¬ 
tators to assume the circumstances of the person principally 
concerned, so she teaches this last in some measure to assume 
those of the spectators. As they are continually placing them¬ 
selves in his situation, and thence conceiving emotions similar 
to what he feels ; so he is as constantly placing himself in theirs, 
and thence conceiving some degree of that coolness about his 
own fortune, with which he is sensible they will view it. As 
they are constantly considering what they themselves would 
feel, if they actually were the sufferers, so he is as constantly 
led to imagine in what manner he would be affected, if he was 
only one of the spectators of his own situation. As their sym¬ 
pathy makes them look at it, in some measure, with his eyes, 
so his sympathy makes him look at it, in some measure, with 
theirs, especially when in their presence and acting under their 
observation: and as the reflected passion, which he thus con¬ 
ceives, is much weaker than the original one, it necessarily a- 
bates the violence of what he felt before he came into their 
presence, before he began to recollect in what manner they 
would be affected by it, and to view his situation in this candid 
and impartial light. 

The mind, therefore, is rarely so disturbed, but that the 
company of a friend will restore it to some degree of tranquil¬ 
lity and sedateness. The breast is, in some measure, calmed 
and composed the moment we come into his presence. We 
are immediately put in mind of the light in which he will view 
our situation, and we begin to view it ourselves in the same 
light; for the effect of sympathy is instantaneous. We expect 
less sympathy from a common acquaintance than from a friend: 
we cannot open to the former all those little circumstances 
which we can unfold to the latter: we assume, therefore, more 
tranquillity before him, and endeavour to fix our thoughts 
upon those general outlines of our situation which he is willing 
to consider. We expect still less sympathy from an assembly 
of strangers, and we assume, therefore, still more tranquillity 


Sect. I. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


49 


before them, and always endeavour to bring down our passion 
to that pitch, which the particular company we are in may be 
expected to go along with. Nor is this only an assumed ap¬ 
pearance: for if we are at all masters of ourselves, the presence 
of a mere acquaintance will really compose us still more than 
that of a friend; and that of an assembly of strangers, still more 
than that of an acquaintance. 

Society and conversation, therefore, are the most powerful 
remedies for restoring the mind to its tranquillity, if, at any 
time, it has unfortunately lost it; as well as the best preserva¬ 
tives of that equal and happy temper, which is so necessary to 
self-satisfaction and enjoyment. Men of retirement and specu¬ 
lation, who are apt to sit brooding at home over either grief or 
resentment, though they may often have more humanity, more 
generosity, and a nicer sense of honour, yet seldom possess that 
equality of temper which is so common among men of the 
world. 


CHAPTER V. 

Of the amiable and respectable virtues. 

UPON these two different efforts, upon that of the specta¬ 
tor to enter into the sentiments of the person principally con¬ 
cerned, and upon that of the person principally concerned, to 
bring down his emotions to what the spectator can go along 
with, are founded two different sets of virtues. The soft, the 
gentle, the amiable virtues, the virtues of candid condescension 
and indulgent humanity, are founded upon the one: the great, 
the awful and respectable, the virtues of self-denial, of self-go¬ 
vernment, of that command of the passions which subjects all 
the movements of our nature to what our own dignity and ho¬ 
nour, and the propriety of our own conduct require, take their 
origin from the other. 

How amiable does he appear to be, whose sympathetic heart 

G 


50 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


seems to re-echo all the sentiments of those with whom he con¬ 
verses, who grieves for their calamities, who resents their in¬ 
juries, and who rejoices at their good fortune! When we 
bring home to ourselves the situation of his companions, we en¬ 
ter into their gratitude, and feel what consolation they must 
derive from the tender sympathy of so affectionate a friend. 
And, for a contrary reason, how disagreeable does he appear 
to be, whose hard and obdurate heart feels for himself only, 
but is altogether insensible to the happiness or misery of others! 
We enter, in this case too, into the pain which his presence 
must give to every mortal with whom he converses, to those 
especially with whom we are most apt to sympathize, the un¬ 
fortunate and the injured. 

On the other hand, what noble propriety and grace do we 
feel in the conduct of those, who, in their own case, exert that 
recollection and self-command which constitute the dignity of 
every passion, and which bring it down to what others can en¬ 
ter into? We are disgusted with that clamorous grief which, 
without any delicacy, calls upon our compassion with sighs and 
tears, and importunate lamentations. But we reverence that 
reserved, that silent and majestic sorrow, which discovers itself 
only in the swelling of the eyes, in the quivering of the lips 
and cheeks, and in the distant, but affecting coldness of the 
whole behaviour. It imposes the like silence upon us. We 
regard it with respectful attention, and watch with anxious con¬ 
cern over our whole behaviour, lest by any impropriety we 
should disturb that concerted tranquillity, which it requires so 
great an effort to support. 

The insolence and brutality of anger, in the same manner 
when we indulge its fury without check or restraint, is, of all 
objects, the most detestable. But we admire that noble and 
generous resentment which governs its pursuit of the greatest 
injuries, not by the rage which they are apt to excite in the 
breast of the sufferer, but by the indignation which they natu¬ 
rally call forth in that of the impartial spectator*, which allows 
no word, no gesture, to escape it beyond what this more equit¬ 
able sentiment would dictate ; which never, even in thought, 


Sect. I. 


©F PROPRIETY. 


51 


attempts any greater vengeance, nor desires to inflict any great¬ 
er punishment, than what every indifferent person would re¬ 
joice to see executed. 

And hence it is, that to feel much for others and little for 
ourselves, that to restrain our selfish, and to indulge our bene¬ 
volent affections, constitutes the perfection of human nature; 
and can alone produce among mankind that harmony of sen¬ 
timents and passions in which consists their whole grace and 
propriety. As to love our neighbour as we love ourselves, is 
the great law of Christianity, so it is the great precept of na¬ 
ture to love ourselves only as we love our neighbour, or what 
comes to the same thing, as our neighbour is capable of lov¬ 
ing us. 

As taste and good judgment, when they are considered as. 
qualities which deserve praise and admiration, are supposed to 
imply a delicacy of sentiment and an acuteness of understanding 
not commonly to be met with; so the virtues of sensibility and., 
self-command are not apprehended to consist in the ordinary, 
but in the uncommon degrees of those qualities. The amiable 
virtue of humanity requires, surely, a sensibility much beyond 
what is possessed by the rude vulgar of mankind. The great 
and exalted virtue of magnanimity, undoubtedly demands much 
more than that degree of self-command, which the weakest of 
mortals is capable of exerting. As in the common degree of 
the intellectual qualities, there are no abilities; so in the com¬ 
mon degree of the moral, there is no virtue. Virtue is excel¬ 
lence, something uncommonly great and beautiful, which rises 
far above what is vulgar and ordinary. The amiable virtues 
consist in that degree of sensibility 'which surprises by its ex¬ 
quisite and unexpected delicacy and tenderness: the awful and 
respectable, in that degree of self-command, which astonishes 
by its amazing superiority over the most ungovernable passions 
of human nature. 

There is, in this respect, a considerable difference between 
virtue and mere propriety; between those qualities and ac¬ 
tions which deserve to be admired and celebrated, and those 
which simply deserve to be approved of. Upon many occa- 

G % 


52 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


sions, to act wlpeh the most perfect propriety, requires no more 
than that common and ordinary degree of sensibility or self- 
command which the most worthless of mankind are possest of, 
and sometimes even that degree is not necessary. Thus, to 
give a very low instance, to eat when we are hungry, is cer-. 
tainly, upon ordinary occasions, perfectly right and proper, 
and cannot miss being approved of as such by every body. 
Nothing, however, could be more absurd than to say it was 
virtuous. 

On the contrary, there may frequently be a considerable de¬ 
gree of virtue in those actions which fall short of the most per¬ 
fect propriety; because they may still approach nearer to per¬ 
fection than could well be expected upon occasions on which 
it was so extremely difficult to attain it: and this is very often 
the case upon those occasions which require the greatest exer¬ 
tions of self-command. There are some situations which bear 
so hard upon human nature, that the greatest degree of self- 
government, which can belong to so an imperfect a creature as 
man, is not able to stifle, altogether, the voice of human weak¬ 
ness, or reduce the violence of the passions to that pitch of 
moderation, in which the impartial spectator can entirely enter 
into them. Though in those cases, therefore, the behaviour 
of the sufferer fall short of the most perfect propriety, it may 
still deserve some applause, and, even, in a certain sense, may 
be denominated virtuous. It may still manifest an eflort of 
generosity and magnanimity, of which the greater part of men 
are incapable; and though it fails of absolute perfection, it may 
be a much nearer approximation towards perfection, than what, 
upon such trying occasions, is commonly either to be found or 
to be expected. 

In cases of this kind, when we are determining the degree 
of blame or applause which seems due to any action, we very 
frequently make use of two different standards. The first is the 
idea of complete propriety and perfection, which, in those difficult 
situations, no human conduct ever did, or ever can come up 
to; -and in comparison with which the actions of all men must 
for ever appear blameable and imperfect. The second is the 



Sect. I. 


OF PROPRIETY* 


idea of that degree of proximity or distance from this complete 
perfection, which the actions of the greater part of men com¬ 
monly arrive at. Whatever goes beyond this degree, how far 
soever it may be removed from absolute perfection, seems to 
deserve applause*, and whatever falls short of it, to deserve 
blame. 

It is in the same manner that we judge of the productions 
of all the arts which address themselves to the imagination. 
When a critic examines the work of any of the great masters 
in poetry or painting, he may sometimes examine it by an idea 
of perfection, in his own mind, which neither that nor any o- 
ther human work will ever come up to; and as long as he com¬ 
pares it with this standard, he can see nothing in it but faults 
and imperfections. But when he comes to consider the rank 
which it ought to hold among other works of the same kind, 
he necessarily compares it with a very different standard, the 
common degree of excellence which is usually attained in this 
particular art; and when he judges of it by this new measure, 
it may often appear to deserve the highest applause, upon ac¬ 
count of its approaching much nearer to perfection than the 
greater part of those works which can be brought into compe¬ 
tition with it. 


OF FROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


54 * 


SECTION II. 

OT THE DEGREES OF TIIE DIFFERENT PASSIONS WHICH ARK 
CONSISTENT WITH PROPRIETY. 

INTRODUCTION. 

T HE propriety of every passion excited by objects peculiarly 
related to ourselves, the pitch which the spectator can go along 
with, must lie, it is evident, in a certain mediocrity. If the 
passion is too high, or if it is too low, he cannot enter into it* 
Grief and resentmeut for private misfortunes and injuries may 
easily, for example, be too high, and in the greater part of 
mankind, they are so. They may likewise, though this more 
rarely happens, be too low. We denominate the excess, weak¬ 
ness and fury: and we call the defect, stupidity, insensibility, 
and want of spirit. We can enter into neither of them, but 
are astonished and confounded to see them. 

This mediocrity, however, in which the point of propriety 
consists, is different in different passions. It is high in some, 
and low in others. There are some passions which it is inde¬ 
cent to express very strongly, even upon those occasions, in 
which it is acknowledged that we cannot avoid feeling them in 
the highest degree. And there are others of which the strong¬ 
est expressions are upon many occasions extremely graceful, 
even though the passions themselves do not, perhaps, arise so 
necessarily. The first are those passions with which, for cer¬ 
tain reasons, there is little or no sympathy: the second are those 
with which, for other reasons, there is the greatest. And if 
we consider all the different passions of human nature, we shall 
find that they are regarded as decent or indecent, just in pro¬ 
portion as mankind are more or less disposed to sympathize 
with them. 


Sect. II. 


OP PROPRIETY. 


CHAPTER I. 

Of the Passions which take their origin from the body, 

1. IT is indecent to express any strong degree of those pas- 
dons which arise from a certain situation cr disposition of the 
body; because the company, not being in the same disposi¬ 
tion, cannot be expected to sympathize with them. Violent 
hunger, for example, though upon many occasions not only 
natural, but unavoidable, is always indecent, and to eat vora¬ 
ciously is universally regarded as a piece of ill manners. There 
is, however, some degree of sympathy, even with hunger. It 
is agreeable to see our companions eat with a good appetite, 
and all expressions of loathing are offensive. The disposition 
of body which is habitual to a man in health, makes his sto¬ 
mach easily keep time, if I may be allowed so coarse an ex¬ 
pression, with the one, and not with the other. We can sym¬ 
pathize with the distress which excessive hunger occasions when 
we read the description of it in the journal of a siege, or of a sea 
voyage. We imagine ourselves in the situation of the sufferers, 
and thence readily conceive the grief, the fear, and consterna¬ 
tion which must necessarily distract them. We feel, ourselves, 
some degree of those passions, and therefore sympathize with 
them: but as we do not grow hungry by reading the descrip¬ 
tion, we cannot properly, even in this case, be said to sympa¬ 
thize with their hunger. 

It is the same case with the passion by which Nature unites 
the two sexes. Though naturally the most furious of all the 
passions, all strong expressions of it are upon every occasion in¬ 
decent, even between persons in whom its most complete indul¬ 
gence is acknowledged by all laws, both human and divine, to 
be perfectly innocent. There seems, however, to be some de¬ 
gree of sympathy even with this passion. To talk to a woman 
as we should to a man is improper: it is expected that their 
company should inspire us with more gaiety, more pleasantry. 


S6 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


•and more attention; and an entire insensibility to the fair sex, 
renders a man contemptible in some measure even to the men. 

Such is our aversion for all the appetites which take their 
origin from the body: all strong expressions of them are loath¬ 
some and disagreeable. According to some ancient philoso¬ 
phers, these are the passions which we share in common with 
the brutes, and which having no connexion with the charac- 
teristical qualities of human nature, are upon that account be¬ 
neath its dignity. But there are many other passions which 
we share in common with the brutes, such as resentment, na¬ 
tural affection, even gratitude, which do not, upon that account, 
appear to be so brutal. The true cause of the peculiar disgust 
which we conceive for the appetites of the body when we see 
them in other men, is that we cannot enter into them. To the 
person himself who feels them, as soon as they are gratified, 
the object that excited them ceases to be agreeable: even its 
presence often becomes offensive to him; he looks round to no 
purpose for the charm which transported him the moment be¬ 
fore, and he can now as little enter into his own passion as ano¬ 
ther person. When we have dined, we order the covers to be 
removed; and we should treat in the same manner the objects 
of the most ardent and passionate desires, if they were the ob¬ 
jects of no other passions but those which take their origin 
from the body. 

In the command of those appetites of the body consists that 
virtue which is properly called temperance. To restrain them 
within those bounds, which regard to health and fortune pre¬ 
scribes, is the part of prudence. But to confine them within 
those limits, which grace, which propriety, which delicacy, and 
modesty require, is the office of temperance. 

2. It is for the same reason that to cry out with bodily pain, 
how intolerable soever, appears always unmanly and unbecom¬ 
ing. There is, however, a good deal of sympathy with bodily 
pain. If, as has already been observed, I see a stroke aimed, 
and just ready to fall upon the leg or arm of another person, 
I naturally shrink and draw back my own leg, or my own ann: 
and when it does fall, I feel it in some measure, and am hurt 


Sect. II. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


57 


by it as well as the sufferer. My hurt, however, is, no doubt, 
excessively slight, and, upon that account, if he makes any vi¬ 
olent outcry, as I cannot go along with him, I never fail to de¬ 
spise him. And this is the case of all the passions which take 
their origin from the body: they excite either no sympathy at 
all, or such a degree of it, as is altogether disproportioned to 
the violence of what is felt by the sufferer. 

It is quite otherwise with those passions which take their 
origin from the imagination. The frame of my body can be 
but little affected by the alterations which are brought about 
upon that of my companion: but my imagination is more duc¬ 
tile, and more readily assumes, if I may say so, the shape and 
configuration of the imaginations of those with whom I am fa¬ 
miliar. A disappointment in love, or ambition, will, upon this 
account, call forth more sympathy than the greatest bodily evil. 
Those passions arise altogether from the imagination. The 
person who has lost his whole fortune, if he is in health, feels 
nothing in his body. What he suffers is from the imagina¬ 
tion only, which represents to him the loss of his dignity, ne¬ 
glect from his friends, contempt from his enemies, dependance, 
want, and misery, coming fast upon him; and we sympathize 
with him more strongly upon this account, because our imagi¬ 
nations can more readily mould themselves upon his imagina¬ 
tion, than our bodies can mould themselves upon his body. 

The loss of a leg may generally be regarded as a more real 
calamity than the loss of a mistress. It would be a ridiculous 
tragedy, however, of which the catastrophe was to turn upon 
a loss of that kind. A misfortune of the other kind, how 
frivolous soever it may appear to be, has given occasion to 
many a fine one. 

Nothing is so soon forgot as pain. The moment it is 
gone, the whole agony of it is over, and the thought of it can 
no longer give us any sort of disturbance. We ourselves can¬ 
not then enter into the anxiety and anguish which we had 
before conceived. An unguarded word from a friend will 
occasion a more durable uneasiness. The agony which this 
creates is by no means over with the word. What at first 

H 


58 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


disturbs us is not the object of the senses, but the idea of the 
imagination. As it is an idea, therefore, which occasions 
our uneasiness, till time and other accidents have in some 
measure effaced it from our memory, the imagination con¬ 
tinues to fret and rankle within, from the thought of it. 

Pain never calls forth any very lively sympathy, unless it 
is accompanied with danger. We sympathize with the fear, 
though not with the agony of the sufferer. Fear, however, 
is a passion derived altogether from the imagination, which 
represents, with an uncertainty and fluctuation that increases 
our anxiety, not what we really feel, but what we may here¬ 
after possibly suffer. The gout or the tooth-ach, though ex¬ 
quisitely painful, excite very little sympathy; more danger¬ 
ous diseases, though accompanied with very little pain, excite 
the highest. 

Some people faint and grow sick at the sight of a chirur- 
gical operation, and that bodily pain which is occasioned by 
tearing the flesh, seems, in them, to excite the most exces¬ 
sive sympathy. We conceive in a much more lively and 
distinct manner, the pain which proceeds from an external 
cause, than we do that which arises from an internal disorder. 
I can scarce form an idea of the agonies of my neighbour 
when he is tortured with the gout or the stone; but I have 
the clearest conception of what he must suffer from an inci¬ 
sion, a wound, or a fracture. The chief cause, however, why 
such objects produce such violent effects upon us, is their no¬ 
velty. One who has been witness to a dozen dissections, 
and as many amputations, sees, ever after, all operations of 
this kind with great indifference, and often with perfect in¬ 
sensibility. Though we have read or seen represented more 
than five hundred tragedies, we shall seldom feel so entire 
an abatement of our sensibility to the objects which they re¬ 
present to us. 

In some of the Greek tragedies there is an attempt to ex¬ 
cite compassion, by the representation of the agonies of bo¬ 
dily pain. Philoctetes cries out and faints from the extre¬ 
mity of his sufferings. Hippolytus and Hercules, are both 


Sect. II. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


59 


introduced as expiring under the severest tortures, which, it 
seems, even the fortitude of Hercules was incapable of sup¬ 
porting. In all these cases, however, it is not the pain which 
interests us, but some other circumstance. It is not the sore 
foot, but the solitude, of Philoctetes which affects us, and dif¬ 
fuses over that charming tragedy, that romantic wildness, 
which is so agreeable to the imagination. The agonies of 
Hercules and Hippolytus are interesting only, because we 
foresee that death is to be the consequence. If those heroes 
were to recover, we should think the representation of their 
sufferings perfectly ridiculous. What a tragedy would that 
be, of which the distress consisted in a cholic! Yet no pain 
is more exquisite. These attempts to excite compassion by 
the representation of bodily pain, may be regarded as among 
the greatest breaches of decorum of which the Greek theatre 
has set the example. 

The little sympathy which we feel with bodily pain is the 
foundation of the propriety of constancy and patience in en¬ 
during it. The man who under the severest tortures allows 
no weakness to escape him, vents no groan, gives way to no 
passion which we do not entirely enter into, commands our 
highest admiration. His firmness enables him to keep time 
with our indifference and insensibility. We admire and en¬ 
tirely go along with the magnanimous effort which he makes 
for this purpose. We approve of his behaviour, and from 
our experience of the common weakness of human nature, 
we are surprised, and wonder how he should be able to act 
so as to deserve approbation. Approbation, mixed and ani¬ 
mated by wonder and surprize, constitutes the sentiment 
which is properly called admiration, of which, applause is the 
natural expression, as has already been observed. 

H 2 


60 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part L 


CHAPTER II. 

Of those Passions 'which take their origin from a particular 
turn or habit of the Imagination . 

EVEN of the passions derived from the imagination, those 
which take th#ir origin from a peculiar turn or habit it has 
acquired, though they may be acknowledged to be perfectly 
natural, are, however, but little sympathized with. The 
imaginations of mankind, not having acquired that particu¬ 
lar turn, cannot enter into them; and such passions, though 
they may be allowed to be almost unavoidable in some part 
of life, are always, in some measure, ridiculous. This is the 
case with that strong attachment which naturally grows up 
between two persons of differents sexes, who have long fixed 
their thoughts upon one another. Our imagination not ha¬ 
ving run in the same channel with that of the lover, we can¬ 
not enter into the eagerness of his emotions. If our friend 
has been injured, we readily sympathize with his resentment, 
and grow angry with the very person with whom he is angry. 
If he has received a benefit, we readily enter into his grati¬ 
tude, and have a very high sense of the merit of his benefac¬ 
tor. But if he is in love, though we may think his passion 
just as reasonable as any of the kind, yet we never think our¬ 
selves bound to conceive a passion of the same kind, and for 
the same person for whom he has conceived it. The passion 
appears to every body, but the man who feels it, entirely dis- 
proportioned to the value of the object; and love, though it 
is pardoned in a certain age because we know it is natural, is 
always laughed at, because we cannot enter into it. All se¬ 
rious and strong expressions of it appear ridiculous to a third 
person; and though a lover may be good company to his 
mistress, he is so to nobody else. He himself is sensible of 
this; and as long as he continues in his sober senses, endeav¬ 
ours to treat his own passion with raillery and ridicule. It is 


Sect. II. 


of propriety. 


61 


the only style in which we care to hear of it; because it is the 
pnly style in which we ourselves are disposed to talk of it. 
We grow weary of the grave, pedantic, and long sentenced 
love of Cowley and Petrarch, who never have done with ex¬ 
aggerating the violence of their attachments; but the gaiety 
of Ovid, and the gallantry of Horace, are always agreeable. 

But though we feel no proper sympathy with an attach¬ 
ment of this kind, though we never approach even in ima¬ 
gination towards conceiving a passion for that particular per¬ 
son, yet as we either have conceived, or may be disposed to 
conceive, passions of the same kind, we readily enter into 
those high hopes of happiness which are proposed from its 
gratification, as well as into that exquisite distress which is 
feared from its disappointment. It interests us not as a pas¬ 
sion, but as a situation that gives occasion to other passions 
which interests us; to hope, to fear, and to distress of every 
kind: in the same manner as in a description of a sea voyage, 
it is not the hunger which interests us, but the distress which 
that hunger occasions. Though we do not properly enter 
into the attachment of the lover, we readily go along with 
those expectations of romantic happiness which he derives 
from it. We feel how natural it is for the mind, in a certain 
situation, relaxed with indolence, and fatigued with the vio¬ 
lence of desire, to long for serenity and quiet, to hope to find 
them in the gratification of that passion which distracts it, 
and to frame to itself the idea of that life of pastoral tran¬ 
quillity and retirement which the elegant, the tender, and 
the passionate Tibullus takes so much pleasure in describing; 
a life like what the poets describe in the Fortunate Islands, 
a life of friendship, liberty and repose; free from labour, and 
from care, and from all the turbulent passions which attend 
them. Even scenes of this kind interests us most, when they 
are painted rather as what is hoped, than as what is enjoyed. 
The grossness of that passion, which mixes with, and is, per¬ 
haps, the foundation of love, disappears when its gratification 
is far off and at a distance; but renders the whole offensive, 
when described as what is immediately possessed. The hap- 


62 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


py passion, upon this account, interests us much less than the 
fearful and the melancholy. We tremble for whatever can 
disappoint such natural and agreeable hopes: and thus enter 
into all the anxiety and concern, and distress of the lover. 

Hence it is, that, in some modern tragedies and romances, 
this passion appears so wonderfully interesting. It is not so 
much the love of Castalio and Monimia which attaches us in 
the Orphan, as the distress which that love occasions. The 
author who should introduce two lovers, in a scene of perfect 
security, expressing their mutual fondness for one another, 
would excite laughter and not sympathy. If a scene of this 
kind is ever admitted into a tragedy, it is always, in some 
measure, improper, and is endured, not from any sympathy 
with the passion that is expressed in it, but from concern for 
the dangers and difficulties with which the audience foresee 
that its gratification is likely to be attended. 

The reserve which the laws of society impose upon the 
fair sex, with regard to this weakness, renders it more pecu¬ 
liarly distressful in them, and, upon that very account, more 
deeply interesting. We are charmed with the love of Phae¬ 
dra, as it is expressed in the French tragedy of that name, 
notwithstanding all the extravagance and guilt which attend 
it. That very extravagance and guilt may be said, in some 
measure, to recommend it to us. Her fear, her shame, her 
remorse, her horror, her despair, become thereby more na¬ 
tural and interesting. All the secondary passions, if I may 
be allowed to call them so, which arise from the situation of 
love, become necessarily more furious and violent; and it is 
with these secondary passions only that we can properly be 
said to sympathize. 

Of all the passions, however, which are so extravagantly 
disproportioned to the value of their objects, love is the only 
one that appears, even to the weakest minds, to have any 
thing in it that is either graceful or agreeable. In itself, first 
of all, though it may be ridiculous, it is not naturally odious; 
and though its consequences are often fatal and dreadful, its 
intentions are seldom mischievous. And then, though there 


Sect. II. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


G3 


is little propriety in the passion itself, there is a good deal in 
some of those which always accompany it. There is in love 
a strong mixture of humanity, generosity, kindness, friend¬ 
ship, esteem; passions with which, of all others, for reasons 
which shall be explained immediately, we have the greatest 
propensity to sympathize, even notwithstanding we are sen¬ 
sible that they are, in some measure, excessive. The sym¬ 
pathy which we feel with them, renders the passion which 
they accompany, less disagreeable, and supports it in our im¬ 
agination, notwithstanding all the vices which commonly go 
along with it; though in the one sex, it necessarily leads to 
the last ruin and infamy; and though in the other, where it 
is apprehended to be least fatal, it is almost always attended 
with an incapacity for labour, a neglect of duty, a contempt 
of fame, and even of common reputation. Notwithstanding 
all this, the degree of sensibility and generosity with which 
it is supposed to be accompanied, renders it to many the ob¬ 
ject of vanity; and they are fond of appearing capable of feel¬ 
ing what would do them no honour if they had really felt it. 

It is for a reason of the same kind, that a certain reserve 
is necessary when we talk of our own friends, our own stu¬ 
dies, our own professions. All these are objects which we 
cannot expect should interest our companions in the same 
degree in which they interest us. And it is for want of this 
reserve, that the one half of mankind make bad company to 
the other. A philosopher is company to a philosopher only; 
the member of a club to his own little knot of companions. 


CHAPTER. III. 

Of the unsocial Passions. 

THERE is another set of passions, which, though derived 
from the imagination, yet before we can enter into them, or 
regard them as graceful or becoming, must always be brought 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


G4< 


down to a pitch much lower than that to which undisciplined 
nature would raise them. These are, hatred and resentment, 
with all their different modifications. With regard to all 
such passions, our sympathy is divided between the person 
who feels them, and the person who is the object of them. 
The interests of these two are directly opposite. What our 
sympathy with the person who feels them would prompt us 
to wish for, our fellow-feeling with the other would lead us 
to fear. As they are both men, we are concerned for both, 
and our fear for what the one may suffer, damps our resent¬ 
ment for what the other has suffered. Our sympathy, there¬ 
fore, with the man who has received the provocation, neces¬ 
sarily falls short of the passion which naturally animates him, 
not only upon account of those general causes which render 
all sympathetic passions inferior to the original ones, but 
upon account of that particular cause which is peculiar to it¬ 
self, our opposite sympathy with another person. Before 
resentment, therefore, can become graceful and agreeable, 
it must be more humbled, and brought down below that pitch 
to which it would naturally rise, than almost any other pas¬ 
sion. 

Mankind, at the same time, have a very strong sense of 
the injuries that are done to another. The villain, in a tra¬ 
gedy or romance, is as much the object of our indignation, 
as the hero is that of our sympathy and affection. We de¬ 
test Iago as much as we esteem Othello; and delight as much 
in the punishment of the one, as we are grieved at the dis¬ 
tress of the other. But though mankind have so strong a 
fellow-feeling with the injuries that are done to their breth¬ 
ren, they do not always resent them the more that the suf¬ 
ferer appears to resent them. Upon most occasions, the 
greater his patience, his mildness, his humanity, provided it 
does not appear that he wants spirit, or that fear was the mo¬ 
tive of his forbearance, the higher the resentment against the 
person who injured him. The amiableness of the character 
exasperates their sense of the atrocity of the injury. 

These passions, however are regarded as necessary parts 


Sect. II. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


65 


of the character of human nature. A person becomes con¬ 
temptible who tamely sits still, and submits to insults, with¬ 
out attempting either to repel or to revenge them. We can¬ 
not enter into his indifference and insensibility: we call his 
behaviour meanspiritedness, and are as really provoked by 
it as by the insolence of his adversary. Even the mob are 
enraged to see any man submit patiently to affronts and ill 
usage. They desire to see this insolence resented, and re¬ 
sented by the person who suffers from it. They cry to him 
with fury, to defend, or to revenge himself. If his indigna¬ 
tion rouses at last, they heartily applaud and sympathize with 
it. It enlivens their own indignation against his enemy, 
whom they rejoice to see him attack in turn, and are as re- 
ally gratified by his revenge, provided it is not immoderate, 
as if the injury had been done to themselves. 

But though the utility of those passions to the individual, 
by rendering it dangerous to insult or injure him, be acknow¬ 
ledged; and though their utility to the public, as the guardians 
of justice, and of the equality of its administration, be not less 
considerable, as shall be shewn hereafter; yet there is still some¬ 
thing disagreeable in the passions themselves, which makes the 
appearance of them in other men the natural object of our a- 
version. The expression of anger towards any body present, 
if it exceeds a bare intimation that we are sensible of his ill u- 
sage, is regarded not only as an insult to that particular person, 
but as a rudeness to the whole company. Respect for them 
ought to have restrained us from giving way to so boisterous 
and offensive an emotion. It is the remote effects of these 
passions which/ are agreeable; the immediate effects are mis¬ 
chief to the person against whom they are directed. But it is 
the immediate, and not the remote effects of objects which ren¬ 
der them agreeable or disagreeable to the imagination. A pri¬ 
son is certainly more useful to the public than a palace; and 
the person who founds the one is generally directed by a much 
juster spirit of patriotism, than he who builds the other. But 
the immediate effects of a prison, the confinement of the 
wretches shut up in it, are disagreeable, and the imagination 

i 


66 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part 1. 


either does not take time to trace out the remote ones, or sees 
them at too great a distance to be much affected by them. A 
prison, therefore, will always be a disagreeable object; and the 
fitter it is for the, purpose for which it was intended, it will be 
the more so. A palace, on the contrary, will always be agreeable; 
yet its remote effects may often be inconvenient to the public. 
It may serve to promote luxury, and set the example of the 
dissolution of manners. Its immediate effects, however, the 
conveniency, the pleasure, and the gaiety of the people who 
live in it, being all agreeable, and suggesting to the imagination 
a thousand agreeable ideas, that faculty generally rests upon 
them, and seldom goes farther in tracing its more distant con¬ 
sequences. Trophies of the instruments of music or of agri¬ 
culture, imitated in painting or in stucco, make a common and 
an agreeable ornament of our halls and dining rooms. A tro¬ 
phy of the same kind, composed of the instruments of surgery, 
of dissecting and amputation-knives, of saws for cutting the 
bones, of trepanning instruments, &c. would be absurd and 
shocking. Instruments of surgery, however, are always more 
finely polished, and generally more nicely adapted to the pur¬ 
poses for which they are intended, than instruments of agricul¬ 
ture. The remote effects of them too, the health of the pa¬ 
tient, is agreeable; yet as the immediate effect of them is pain 
and suffering, the sight of them always displeases us. Instru¬ 
ments of war are agreeable, though their immediate effect may 
seem to be in the same manner pain and suffering. But then 
it is the pain and suffering of our enemies, with whom we have 
no sympathy. With regard to us, they are immediately connect¬ 
ed with the agreeable ideas of courage, victory, and honour. 
They are themselves, therefore, supposed to make one of the 
noblest parts of dress, and the imitation of them one of the finest 
ornaments of architecture. It is the same case with the qualities 
of the mind. The ancient stoics were of opinion, that as the 
world was governed by the all-ruling providence of a wise, 
powerful, and good God, every single event ought to be re¬ 
garded, as making a necessary part of the plan of the universe, 
and as tending to promote the general order and happiness of 


Sect. II. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


67 


the whole: that the vices and follies of mankind, therefore, 
made as necessary a part of this plan as their wisdom or their 
virtue; and by that eternal art which educes good from ill, 
were made to tend equally to the prosperity and perfection of 
the great system of nature. No speculation of this kind, how¬ 
ever, how deeply soever it might be rooted in the mind, could 
diminish our natural abhorrence for vice, whose immediate ef¬ 
fects are so destructive, and whose remote ones are too distant 
to be traced by the imagination. 

It is the same case with those passions we have been just 
now considering. Their immediate effects are so disagreeable, 
that even when they are most justly provoked, there is still 
something about them which disgusts us. These, therefore, 
are the only passions of which the expressions, as I formerly 
observed, do not dispose and prepare us to sympathize with 
them, before we are informed of the cause which excites them. 
The plaintive voice of misery, when heard at a distance, will 
not allow us to be indifferent about the person from whom it 
comes. As soon as it strikes our ear, it interests us in his for¬ 
tune, and, if continued, forces us almost involuntarily to fly to 
his assistance. The sight of a smiling countenance, in the 
same manner, elevates even the pensive into that gay and airy 
mood, which disposes him to sympathize with, and share the 
joy which it expresses; and he feels his heart, which with 
thought and care was before that shrunk and depressed, instant¬ 
ly expanded and elated. But it is quite otherwise with the 
expressions of hatred and resentment. The hoarse, boisterous, 
and discordant voice of anger, when heard at a distance, inspires 
us either with fear or aversion. We do not fly towards it, 
as to one who cries out with pain and agony. Women, and 
men of weak nerves, tremble, and are overcome with fear, 
though sensible that themselves are not the objects of the 
anger. They conceive, fear, however, by putting themselves 
in the situation of the person who is so. Even those of stout¬ 
er hearts are disturbed; not indeed enough to make them a- 
fraid, but enough to make them angry; for anger is the pas¬ 
sion which they would feel in the situation of the other per^ 

i 2 


6$ 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


son. It is the same case with hatred. Mere expressions of 
spite inspire it against nobody, but the man who uses them. 
Both these passions are by nature the objects of our aversion. 
Their disagreeable and boisterous appearance never excites, 
never prepares, and often disturbs our sympathy. Grief does 
not more powerfully engage and attract us to the person in 
whom we observe it, than these, while we are ignorant of their 
cause, disgust and detach us from him. It was, it seems, the 
intention of Nature, that those rougher and more amiable e- 
motions, which drive men from one another, should be less 
easily and more rarely communicated. 

W hen music imitates the modulations of grief or joy, it ei¬ 
ther actually inspires us with those passions, or at least puts 
us in the mood which disposes us to conceive them. But when 
it imitates the notes of anger, it inspires us with fear. Joy, 
grief, love, admiration, devotion, are all of them passions which 
are naturally musical. Their natural tones are all soft, clear, 
and melodious; and they naturally express themselves in pe¬ 
riods which are distinguished by regular pauses, and which 
upon that account are easily adapted to the regular returns of 
the correspondent airs of a tune. The voice of anger, on the 
contrary, and of all the passions which are akin to it, is harsh 
and discordant. Its periods too are all irregular, sometimes 
very long, and sometimes very short, and distinguished by no 
regular pauses. It is with difficulty, therefore, that music 
can imitate any of those passions; and the music which does 
imitate them is not the most agreeable. A whole entertain¬ 
ment may consist, without any impropriety, of the imitation 
of the social and agreeable passions. It would be a strange 
entertainment which consisted altogether of the imitations 
of hatred and resentment. 

If those passions are disagreeable to the spectator, they 
are not less so to the person who feels them. Hatred and 
anger are the greatest poison to the happiness of a good 
mind. There is, in the very feeling of those passions, some¬ 
thing harsh, jarring and convulsive, something that tears and 
distracts the breast, and is altogether destructive of that com- 


Sect. II. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


69 


posure and tranquillity of mind which is so necessary to hap¬ 
piness, and which is best promoted by the contrary passions 
of gratitude and love. It is not the value of what they lose 
by the perfidy and ingratitude of those they live with, which 
the generous and humane are most apt to regret. Whatever 
they may have lost, they can generally be very happy with¬ 
out it. What most disturbs them is the idea of perfidy and 
ingratitude exercised towards themselves; and the discord¬ 
ant and disagreeable passions which this excites, constitute, 
in their own opinion, the chief part of the injury which they 
suffer. 

How many things are requisite to render the gratification 
of resentment completely agreeable, and to make the specta¬ 
tor thoroughly sympathize with our revenge ? The provoca¬ 
tion must first of all be such that we should become con¬ 
temptible, and be exposed to perpetual insults, if we did not, 
in some measure, resent it. Smaller offences are always 
better neglected; nor is there any thing more despicable 
than that froward and captious humour which takes fire 
upon every slight occasion of quarrel. We should resent 
more from a sense of the propriety of resentment, from a 
sense that mankind expect and require it of us, than because 
we feel in ourselves the furies of that disagreeable passion. 
There is no passion, of which the human mind is capable, 
concerning whose justness we ought to be so doubtful, con¬ 
cerning whose indulgence we ought so carefully to consult 
our natural sense of propriety, or so diligently to consider 
what will be the sentiments of the cool and impartial specta¬ 
tor. Magnanimity, or a regard to maintain our own rank 
and dignity in society, is the only motive which can ennoble 
the expressions of this disagreeable passion. This motive 
must characterize our whole style and deportment. These 
must be plain, open, and direct; determined without posi¬ 
tiveness, and elevated without insolence; not only free from 
petulance and low scurrility, but generous, candid, and full 
of all proper regards, even for the person who has offended 
us. It must appear, in short, from our whole manner, with- 


70 


01' PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


out our labouring affectedly to express it, that passion has 
not extinguished our humanity; and that if we yield to the 
dictates of revenge, it is with reluctance, from necessity, 
and in consequence of great and repeated provocations. 
When resentment is guarded and qualified in this manner, 
it may be admitted to be even generous and noble. 

—»>3x«— 

CHAPTER. IV. 

Of the social Passions. 

AS it is a divided sympathy which renders the whole set 
of passions just now mentioned, upon most occasions, so un¬ 
graceful and disagreeable; so there is another set opposite 
to these, which a redoubled sympathy renders almost always 
peculiarly agreeable and becoming. Generosity, humanity, 
kindness, compassion, mutual friendship, and esteem, all the 
social and benevolent affections, when expressed in the coun¬ 
tenance or behaviour, even towards those who are not pecu¬ 
liarly connected with ourselves, please the indifferent specta¬ 
tor upon almost every occasion. His sympathy with the per¬ 
son who feels those passions exactly coincides with his con¬ 
cern for the person who is the object of them. The interest, 
which, as a man, he is obliged to take in the happiness of 
this last, enlivens his fellow-feeling with the sentiments of 
the other, whose emotions are employed about the same ob¬ 
ject. We have always, therefore, the strongest disposition 
to sympathize with the benevolent affections. They appear 
in every respect agreeable to us. We enter into the satis-, 
faction both of the person who feels them, and of the person 
who is the object of them. For as to be the object of hatred 
and indignation gives more pain than all the evil which a 
brave man can fear from his enemies; so there is a satisfac¬ 
tion in the consciousness of being beloved, which to a person 
of delicacy and sensibility, is of more importance to happiness 


Sect. IT. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


71 


than all the advantage which he can expect to derive from it. 
What character is so detestable as that of one who takes plea¬ 
sure to sow dissension among friends, and to turn their most 
tender love into mortal hatred? Yet wherein does the atro¬ 
city of this so much abhorred injury consist? Is it in depriv¬ 
ing them of the frivolous good offices, which had their friend¬ 
ship continued, they might have expected from one another? 
It is in depriving them of that friendship itself, in robbing 
them of each other’s affections, from which both derived so 
much satisfaction; it is in disturbing the harmony of their 
hearts, and putting an end to that happy commerce which 
had before subsisted between them. These affections, that 
harmony, this commerce, are felt, not only by the tender and 
the delicate, but by the rudest vulgar of mankind, to be of 
more importance to happiness than all the little services which 
could be expected to flow from them. 

The sentiment of love is, in itself, agreeable to the person 
who feels it. It soothes and composes the breast, seems to 
favour the vital motions, and to promote the healthful state 
of the human constitution; and it is rendered still more de¬ 
lightful by the consciousness of the gratitude and satisfaction 
which it must excite in him who is the object of it. Their 
mutual regard renders them happy in one another, and sym¬ 
pathy, with this mutual regard, makes them agreeable to eve¬ 
ry other person. With what pleasure do we look upon a 
family through the whole of which reign mutual love and 
esteem, where the parents and children are companions for 
one another, without any other difference than what is 
made by respectful affection on the one side, and kind in¬ 
dulgence on the other; where freedom and fondness, mu¬ 
tual raillery, and mutual kindness, show that no opposi¬ 
tion of interest divides the brothers, nor any rivalship of 
favour sets the sisters at variance, and where every thing pre¬ 
sents us with the idea of peace, chearfulness, harmony, and 
contentment? On the contrary, how uneasy are we made 
when we go into a house in which jarring contention sets one 
half of those who dwell in it against the other; where, amidst 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


affected smoothness and complaisance, suspicious looks and 
sudden starts of passion betray the mutual jealousies which 
burn within them, and which are every moment ready to 
burst out through all the restraints which the presence of the 
company imposes? 

Those amiable passions, even when they are acknowledged 
to be excessive, are never regarded with aversion. There is 
something agreeable even in the weakness of friendship and 
humanity. The too tender mother, and the too indulgent 
father, the two generous and affectionate friend, may some¬ 
times, perhaps, on account of the softness of their natures, 
be looked upon with a species of pity, in which, however, 
there is a mixture of love; but can never be regarded with 
hatred and aversion, nor even with contempt, unless by the 
most brutal and worthless of mankind. It is always with 
concern, with sympathy and kindness, that we blame them for 
the extravagance of their attachment. There is a helpless¬ 
ness in the character of extreme humanity which more than 
any thing interests our pity. There is nothing in itself which 
renders it either ungraceful or disagreeable. We only regret 
that it is unfit for the world, because the world is unworthy 
of it, and because it must expose the person who is endowed 
with it as a prey to the perfidy and ingratitude of insinuating 
falsehood, and to a thousand pains and uneasinesses, which, 
of all men, he the least deserves to feel, and which generally 
too he is, of all men, the least capable of supporting. It is 
quite otherwise with hatred and resentment. Too violent a 
propensity to those detestable passions, renders a person the 
object of universal dread and abhorrence, who like a wild 
beast, ought, we think, to be hunted out of all civil society. 


Sect. II. 


©F PROPRIETY. 


CHAPTER V. 

Of the selfish Passions . 

BESIDES those two opposite sets of passions, the social 
and unsocial, there is another which holds a sort of middle 
place between them-, is never either so graceful as is some¬ 
times the one set, nor is ever so odious as is sometimes the 
other. Grief and joy, when conceived upon account of our 
own private good or bad fortune, constitute this third set of 
passions. Even when excessive, they are never so disagree¬ 
able as excessive resentment, because no opposite sympathy 
can ever interest us against them: and when most suitable 
to their objects, they are never so agreeable as impartial hu¬ 
manity and just benevolence; because, no double sympathy 
can ever interest us for them. There is, however, this dif¬ 
ference between grief and joy, that we are generally most 
disposed to sympathize with small joys and great sorrows. 
The man who, by some sudden revolution of fortune, is lifted 
up all at once into a condition of life, greatly above what 
he had formerly lived in, may be assured that the congra¬ 
tulations of his best friends are not all of them perfectly sin¬ 
cere. An upstart, though of the greatest merit, is generally 
disagreeable, and a sentiment of envy commonly prevents us 
from heartily sympathizing with his joy. If he has any judg¬ 
ment, he is sensible of this, and instead of appearing to be 
elated with his good fortune, he endeavours, as much as he 
can, to smother his joy, and keep down that elevation of mind 
with which his new circumstances naturally inspire him. He 
affects the same plainness of dress, and the same modesty of 
behaviour, which became him in his former station. He re¬ 
doubles his attention to his old friends, and endeavours more 
than ever to be humble, assiduous, and complaisant. And 
this is the behaviour which in his situation we must approve 
©f; because we expect, it seems, that he should have more 


74 


OF FFvOPRIETY. 


Part I. 


sympathy with our envy and aversion to his happiness, than 
we have to his happiness. It is seldom that with all this 
he succeeds. We suspect the sincerity of his humility, 
and he grows weary of this constraint. In a little time, 
therefore, he generally leaves all his old friends behind 
him, some of the meanest of them excepted, who may, per¬ 
haps, condescend to become his dependants: nor does he 
always acquire any new ones; the pride of his new con¬ 
nections is as much affronted at finding him their equal, as 
that of his old ones had been by his becoming their supe¬ 
rior: and it requires the most obstinate and persevering 
modesty to atone for this mortification to either. He ge¬ 
nerally grows weary too soon, and is provoked, by the sul¬ 
len and suspicious pride of the one, and by the saucy con¬ 
tempt of the other, to treat the first with neglect, and the 
second with petulance, till at last he grows habitually insolent, 
and forfeits the esteem of all. If the chief part of human 
happiness arises from the consciousness of being beloved, as 
I believe it does, those sudden changes of fortune seldom 
contribute much to happiness. He is happiest who advances 
more gradually to greatness, whom the public destines to 
every step of his preferment long before he arrives at it, in 
whom, upon that account, when it comes, it can excite no 
extravagant joy, and with regard to whom it cannot reasonably 
create either any jealousy in those he overtakes, or any envy 
in those he leaves behind. 

Mankind, however, more readily sympathize with those 
smaller joys which flow from less important causes. It is de¬ 
cent to be humble amidst great prosperity; but we can scarce 
express too much satisfaction in all the little occurrences of 
common life, in the company with which we spent the even¬ 
ing last night, in the entertainment that was set before us, 
in what was said and what was done, in all the little incidents 
of the present conversation, and in all those frivolous no¬ 
things which fill up the void of human life. Nothing is more 
graceful than habitual chearfulness, which is always founded 
upon a peculiar relish for all the little pleasures which com- 


Sect. II. 


©F PROPRIETY. 


75 


mon occurrences afford. We readily sympathize with it: it 
inspires us with the same joy, and makes every trifle turn up 
to us in the same agreeable aspect in which it presents itself 
to the person endowed with this happy disposition. Hence 
it is, that youth, the season of gaiety, so easily engages our 
affections. That propensity to joy which seems even to ani¬ 
mate the bloom, and to sparkle from the eyes of youth and 
beauty, though in a person of the same sex, exalts, even the 
aged, to a more joyous mood than ordinary. They forget, 
for a time, their infirmities, and abandon themselves to those 
agreeable ideas and emotions to which they have long been 
strangers, but which, w T hen the presence of so much happi¬ 
ness recals them to their breast, take their place there, like 
old acquaintance, from whom they are sorry to have ever 
been parted, and whom they embrace more heartily upon ac¬ 
count of this long separation. 

It is quite otherwise with grief. Small vexations excite 
no sympathy, but deep affliction calls forth the greatest. 
The man who is made uneasy by every little disagreeable 
incident, who is hurt if either the cook or the butler have 
failed in the least article of their duty, who feels every defect 
in the highest ceremonial of politeness, whether it be shewn 
to himself or to any other person, who takes it amiss that 
his intimate friend did not bid him good-morrow when they 
met in the forenoon, and that his brother hummed a tune 
all the time he himself was telling a story; who is put out 
of humour by the badness of the weather when in the coun¬ 
try, by the badness of the roads when upon a journey, and 
by the want of company, and dulness of all public diversions 
when in town: such a person, I say, though he should have 
some reason, will seldom meet with much sympathy. Joy 
is a pleasant emotion, and we gladly abandon ourselves to it 
upon the slightest occasion. We readily, therefore, sym¬ 
pathize with it in others, whenever we are not prejudiced by 
envy. But grief is painful, and the mind, even when it is 
our own misfortune, naturally resists and recoils from it. 
We would endeavour either not to conceive it at all, or to, 

K 2 


?<* 


OF PROPRIETY* 


Part I. 


shake it off as soon as we have conceived it. Our aversion 
to grief will not, indeed, always hinder us from conceiving 
it in our own case upon very trifling occasions, but it con¬ 
stantly prevents us from sympathizing with it in others 
when excited by the like frivolous causes: for our sympa¬ 
thetic passions are always less irresistible than our original 
ones. There is, besides, a malice in mankind, which not on¬ 
ly prevents all sympathy with little uneasinesses, but renders 
them in some measure diverting. Hence the delight which 
we all take in raillery, and in the small vexation which we 
observe in our companion when he is pushed, and urged, and 
teased upon all sides. Men of the most ordinary good-breed¬ 
ing, dissemble the pain which any little incident may give 
them, and those who are more thoroughly formed to society, 
turn, of their own accord, all such incidents into raillery, as 
they know their companions will do for them. The habit 
which a man, who lives in the world, has acquired of consi¬ 
dering how every thing that concerns himself will appear to 
others, make those frivolous calamities turn up in the same 
ridiculous light to him, in which he knows they will certain¬ 
ly be considered by them. 

Our sympathy, on the contrary, with deep distress, is 
very strong and very sincere. It is unnecessary to give an 
instance. We weep even at the feigned representation of a 
tragedy. If you labour, therefore, under any signal calamity, 
if by some extraordinary misfortune you are fallen into po¬ 
verty, into diseases, into disgrace and disappointment; even 
though your own fault may have been, in part, the occasion, 
yet you may generally depend upon the sincerest sympathy of 
all your friends, and, as far as interest and honour will per¬ 
mit, upon their kindest assistance too. But if your misfor¬ 
tune is not of this dreadful kind, if you have only been a lit¬ 
tle baulked in your ambition, if you have only been jilted by 
your mistress, or are only hen-pecked by your wife, lay your 
account with the raillery of all your acquaintance. 


Sect. III. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


77 


SECTION III . 


OF TIIE EFFECTS OF PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY UPON THE 
JUDGMENT OF MANKIND WITH REGARD TO TIIE PRO¬ 
PRIETY OF ACTION; AND WHY IT IS MORE EASY TO 
OBTAIN THEIR APPROBATION IN TIIE ONE 
STATE THAN IN TIIE OTHER. 


CHAPTER I. 

That though our sympathy with sorrow is generally a more live¬ 
ly sensation than our sympathy withjoy , it commonly falls 
much more short of the violence of what is naturally felt by 
the person principally concerned . 

Our sympathy with sorrow, though not more real, has 
been more taken notice of than our sympathy with joy. The 
-word sympathy, in its most proper and primitive significa¬ 
tion, denotes our fellow-feeling with the sufferings, not that 
with the enjoyments of others. A late ingenious and subtile 
philosopher thought it necessary to prove, by arguments, that 
we had a real sympathy with joy, and that congratulation was 
a principle of human nature. Nobody, I believe, ever thought 
it necessary to prove that compassion was such. 

First of all, our sympathy with sorrow is, in some sense, 
more universal than that with joy. Though sorrow is exces¬ 
sive, we may still have some fellow-feeling with it. What 
we feel does not, indeed, in this case, amount to that com¬ 
plete sympathy, to that perfect harmony and correspondence 
of sentiments which constitutes approbation. We do not 
weep, and exclaim, and lament, with the sufferer. We are 
sensible, on the contrary, of his weakness and of the extra- 




78 


OP PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


vagance of his passion, and yet often feel a very sensible con¬ 
cern upon his account. But if we do not entirely enter into, 
and go along with, the joy of another, we have no sort of 
regard or fellow-feeling for it. The man who skips and 
dances about with that intemperate and senseless joy which 
we cannot accompany him in, is the object of our contempt 
and indignation. 

Pain, besides, whether of mind or body, is a more pun¬ 
gent sensation than pleasure, and our sympathy with pain, 
though it falls greatly short of what is naturally felt by the 
sufferer, is generally a more lively and distinct perception 
than our sympathy with pleasure, though this last often ap¬ 
proaches more nearly, as I shall shew immediately, to the 
natural vivacity of the original passion. 

Over and above all this, we often struggle to keep down 
our sympathy with the sorrow of others. Whenever we are 
not under the observation of the sufferer, we endeavour for 
our own sake, to suppress it as much as we can, and we are 
not always successful. The opposition which we make to it, 
and the reluctance with which we yield to it, necessarily oblige 
us to take more particular notice of it. But we never have 
occasion to make this opposition to our sympathy with joy. 
If there is any envy in the case, we never feel the least pro¬ 
pensity towards it; and if there is none, we give way to it 
without any reluctance. On the contrary, as we are always 
ashamed of our own envy, we often pretend, and sometimes 
really wish to sympathize with the joy of others, when by 
that disagreeable sentiment we are disqualified from doing 
so. We are glad, we say, on account of our neighbour's 
good fortune, when in our hearts, perhaps, we are really sor¬ 
ry. We often feel a sympathy with sorrow when we would 
wish to be rid of it; and we often miss that with joy when 
we would be glad to have it. The obvious observation, there¬ 
fore, which it naturally falls in our way to make, is, that our 
propensity to sympathize with sorrow must be very strong, 
and our inclination to sympathize with joy very weak. 

Notwithstanding this prejudice, however, I will ven- 


Sect. II r. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


79 


ture to affirm, that, when there is no envy in the case, our 
propensity to sympathize with joy is much stronger than our 
propensity to sympathize with sorrow; and that our fellow- 
feeling for the agreeable emotion approaches much more 
nearly to the vivacity of what is naturally felt by the per¬ 
sons principally concerned, than that which we conceive for 
the painful one. 

We have some indulgence for that excessive grief which 
we cannot entirely go along with. We know what a prodi¬ 
gious effort is requisite before the sufferer can bring down 
his emotions to complete harmony and concord with those 
of the spectator. Though he fails, therefore, we easily par¬ 
don him. But we have no such indulgence for the intem¬ 
perance of joy; because we are not conscious that any such 
vast effort is requisite to bring it down to what we can en¬ 
tirely enter into. The man who, under the greatest calami¬ 
ties, can command his sorrow, seems worthy of the highest 
admiration; but he who, in the fulness of prosperity, can in 
the same manner master his joy, seems hardly to deserve any 
praise. We are sensible that there is a much wider interval 
in the one case than in the other, between what is naturally 
felt by the person principally concerned, and what the spec¬ 
tator can entirely go along with. 

What can be added to the happiness of the man who is 
in health, who is out of debt, and has a clear conscience? 
To one in this situation, all accessions of fortune may pro¬ 
perly be said to be superfluous; and if he is much elevated 
upon account of them, it must be the effect of the most fri¬ 
volous levity. This situation, however, may very well be 
called the natural and ordinary state of mankind. Notwith¬ 
standing the present misery and depravity of the world, so 
justly lamented, this really is the state of the greater part of 
men. The greater part of men, therefore, cannot find any 
great difficulty in elevating themselves to all the joy which 
any accession to this situation can well excite in their com¬ 
panion. 

But though little can be added to this state, much may be 


so 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


taken from it. Though between this condition and the high¬ 
est pitch of human prosperity, the interval is but a trifle; be¬ 
tween it and the lowest depth of misery, the distance is im¬ 
mense and prodigious, Adversity, on this account, necessa¬ 
rily depresses the mind of the sufferer much more below its 
natural state, than prosperity can elevate him above it. The 
spectator, therefore, must find it much more difficult to sym¬ 
pathize entirely, and keep perfect time, with his sorrow, than 
thoroughly to enter into his joy, and must depart much fur¬ 
ther from his own natural and ordinary temper of mind in 
the one case than in the other. It is on this account, that 
though our sympathy with sorrow is often a more pungent sen¬ 
sation than our sympathy with joy, it always falls much more 
short of the violence of what is naturally felt by the person 
principally concerned. 

It is agreeable to sympathize with joy; and wherever envy 
does not oppose it, our heart abandons itself with the satisfac¬ 
tion to the highest transports of that delightful sentiment. 
But it is painful to go along with grief, and we always enter 
into it with reluctance*. When we attend to the representa¬ 
tion of a tragedy, we struggle against that sympathetic sorrow 
which the entertainment inspires as long as we can, and we 
give way to it at last only when we can no longer avoid it: we 
even then endeavour to cover our concern from the company. 
If we shed any tears, we carefully conceal them, and are afraid, 
lest the spectators, not entering into this excessive tenderness, 
should regard it as effeminacy and weakness. The wretch 
whose misfortunes call upon our compassion feels, with what 


* It has been objected to me, that as I found the sentiment of approbation, 
which is always agreeable, upon sympathy, it is inconsistent with my system 
to admit any disagreeable sympathy. I answer, that in the sentiment of ap¬ 
probation there are two things to be taken notice of; first, the sympathetic 
passion of the spectator; and, secondly, the emotion which arises from his ob¬ 
serving the perfect coincidence between this sympathetic passion in himself, 
and the original passion in the person principally concerned. This last emo¬ 
tion, in which the sentiment of approbation properly consists, is always a - 
greeable and delightful. The other may either be agreeable or disagreeable, 
according to the nature of the original passion, whose features it must always* 
m some measure, retain. 


Sect. III. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


81 


reluctance we are likely to enter into his sorrow, and therefore 
proposes his grief to us with fear and hesitation: he even smo¬ 
thers the half of it, and is ashamed, upon account of this hard¬ 
heartedness of mankind, to give vent to the fulness of his af¬ 
fliction. It is otherwise with the man who riots in joy and 
success. Wherever envy does not interest us against him, he 
expects our completest sympathy. He does not fear, there¬ 
fore, to announce himself with shouts of exultation, in full con- 
fidence that we are heartily disposed to go along with him. 

Why should we be more ashamed to weep than to laugh 
before company; we may often have as real occasion to do the 
one as to do the other: but we always feel that the spectators 
are more likely to go along with us in the agreeable, than in 
the painful emotion. It is always miserable to complain, even 
when we are oppressed by the most dreadful calamities. But 
the triumph of victory is not always ungraceful. Prudence, 
indeed, would often advise us to bear our prosperity with more 
moderation; because prudence would teach us to avoid that 
envy which this very triumph is, more than any thing, apt to 
excite. 

How hearty are the acclamations of the mob, who never 
bear any envy to their superiors, at a triumph or a public en¬ 
try? And how sedate and moderate is commonly their grief 
at an execution ? Our sorrow at a funeral generally amounts 
to no more than an affected gravity: but our mirth at a christ<- 
ening or a marriage is always from the heart, and without any 
affectation. Upon these, and all such joyous occasions, our 
satisfaction, though not so durable, is often as lively as that of 
the persons principally concerned. Whenever we cordially 
congratulate our friends, which, however, to the disgrace of 
human nature, we do but seldom, their joy literally becomes 
our joy: we are, for the moment, as happy as they are: our 
heart swells and overflows with real pleasure: joy and compla¬ 
cency sparkle from our eyes, and animate every feature of our 
countenance, and every gesture of our body. 

But, on the contrary, when we condole with our friends 
in their afflictions, how little do we feel in comparison of what 

L 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part L 


m 

they feel? We sit down by them, we look at them, and while 
they relate to us the circumstances of their misfortune, we lis¬ 
ten to them with gravity and attention. But while their nar¬ 
ration is every moment interrupted by those natural bursts of 
passion which often seem almost to choak them in the midst 
of it; how far are the languid emotions of our hearts from 
keeping time to the transports of theirs? We may be sensible 
at the same time, that their passion is natural, and no greater 
than what we ourselves might feel upon the like occasion. 
We may even inwardly reproach ourselves with our own want 
of sensibility, and perhaps, on that account, work ourselves up 
into an artificial sympathy, which, however, when it is raised, 
is always the slightest and most transitory imaginable; and ge¬ 
nerally, as soon as we have left the room, vanishes, and is 
gone for ever. Nature, it seems, when she loaded us with 
our own sorrows, thought that they were enough, and there¬ 
fore did not command us to take any further share in those of 
others, than what was necessary to prompt us to relieve them. 

It is on account of this dull sensibility to the afflictions 
of others, that magnanimity amidst great distress appears al¬ 
ways so divinely graceful. His behaviour is genteel and a- 
greeable who can maintain his cheerfulness amidst a number 
of frivolous disasters. But he appears to be more than mor¬ 
tal, who can support in the same manner, the most dreadful 
calamities. We feel what an immense effort is requisite to 
silence those violent emotions which naturally agitate and dis¬ 
tract those in his situation. We are amazed to find that he 
can command himself so entirely. His firmness, at the same 
time, perfectly coincides with our insensibility, He makes 
no demand upon us for that more exquisite degree of sensibil¬ 
ity which we find, and which we are mortified to find, that 
we do not possess. There is the most perfect correspondence 
between his sentiments and ours, and on that account, the 
most perfect propriety in his behaviour. It is a propriety too, 
which, from our experience of the usual weakness of human 
nature, we could not reasonably have expected he should be 
able to maintain. We wonder with surprise and astonish- 


Sect. II. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


S3 


ment at that strength of mind which is capable of so noble 
and generous an effort. The sentiment of complete sympa¬ 
thy and approbation, mixed and animated with wonder and 
surprise, constitutes what is properly called admiration, as has 
already been more than once taken notice of. Cato, sur¬ 
rounded on all sides by his enemies, unable to resist them, 
disdaining to submit to them, and reduced by the proud max¬ 
ims of that age, to the necessity of destroying himself; yet 
never shrinking from his misfortunes, never supplicating with 
the lamentable voice of wretchedness, those miserable sympa¬ 
thetic tears which we are always so unwilling to give ; but on 
the contrary, arming himself with manly fortitude, and the 
moment before he executes his fatal resolution, giving, with 
his usual tranquillity, ail necessary orders for the safety of his 
friends; appears to Seneca, that great preacher of insensibility, 
a spectacle, which even the gods themselves might behold with 
pleasure and admiration. 

Whenever we meet in common life, with any examples 
of such heroic magnanimity, we are always extremely affected. 
We are more apt to weep and shed tears for such as in this 
manner seem to feel nothing for themselves, than for those 
who give way to all the weakness of sorrow: and in this par¬ 
ticular case the sympathetic grief of the spectator appears to 
go beyond the original passion in the person principally con¬ 
cerned. The friends of Socrates all wept when he drank the 
last potion, while he himself expressed the gayest and most 
cheerful tranquillity. Upon all such occasions the spectator 
makes no effort, and has no occasion to make any, in order 
to conquer his sympathetic sorrow. He is under no fear 
that it will transport him to any thing that is extravagant 
and improper; he is rather pleased with the sensibility of his 
own heart, and gives way to it with complacence and self¬ 
approbation. He gladly indulges, therefore, the most me¬ 
lancholy views which can naturally occur to him concerning 
the calamity of his friend, for whom, perhaps, he never felt 
so exquisitely before, the tender and tearful passion of love. 
But it is quite otherwise with the person principally concerned. 


81 


OP PROPRIETY* 


Part I. 


He is obliged, as much as possible, to turn away his eyes 
from whatever is either naturally terrible or disagreeable in 
his situation. Too serious an attention to those circumstan¬ 
ces, he fears, might make so violent an impression upon him, 
that he could no longer keep within the bonds of moderation, 
or render himself the object of the complete sympathy and 
approbation of the spectators. He fixes his thoughts, there¬ 
fore, upon those only which are agreeable, the applause and 
admiration which he is about to deserve by the heroic mag¬ 
nanimity of his behaviour. To feel that he is capable of so 
noble and generous an effort, to feel that in this dreadful 
situation he can still act as he would desire to act, animates 
and transports him with joy, and enables him to support that 
triumphant gaiety which seems to exult in the victory he thus 
gains over his misfortunes. 

On the contrary, he always appears, in some measure, 
mean and despicable, who is sunk in sorrow and dejection 
upon account of any calamity of his own. We cannot bring 
ourselves to feel for him what he feels for himself, and what, 
perhaps, we should feel for ourselves if in his situation: we 
therefore despise him; unjustly, perhaps, if any sentiment 
could be regarded as unjust, to which we are by nature irre¬ 
sistibly determined. The weakness of sorrow never appears 
in any respect agreeable, except when it arises from what we 
feel for others more than from what we feel for ourselves. A 
son, upon the death of an indulgent and respectable father, 
may give way to it without much blame. His sorrow is chiefly 
founded upon a sort of sympathy with his departed parent; and 
we readily enter into this humane emotion. But if he should 
indulge the same weakness upon account of any misfortune 
which affected himself only, he would no longer meet with 
any such indulgence. If he should be reduced to beggary 
and ruin, if he should be exposed to the most dreadful dan¬ 
gers, if he should even be led out to a public execution, and 
there shed one single tear upon the scaffold, he would dis¬ 
grace himself for ever in the opinion of all the gallant and 
generous part of mankind. Their compassion for him, how- 


Sect. III. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


S3 


ever, would be very strong and very sincere; but as it would still 
Fall short of this excessive weakness, they would have no pardon 
for the man who could thus expose himself in the eyes of the 
world. His behaviour would affect them with shame rather 
than with sorrow; and the dishonour which he had thus brought 
upon himself would appear to them the most lamentable circum¬ 
stance in his misfortune. How did it disgrace the memory of 
the intripid Duke of Biron, who had so often braved death in 
the field, that he wept upon the scaffold, when he beheld the 
state to which he was fallen, and remembered the favour and 
the glory from which his own rashness had so unfortunately 
thrown him. 


CHAPTER II. 

Of the origin of Ambition , and of the distinction of' Ranks. 

IT is because mankind are disposed to sympathize more en¬ 
tirely with our joy than with our sorrow, that we make parade 
of our riches, and conceal our poverty. Nothing is so morti¬ 
fying as to be obliged to expose our distress to the view of 
the public, and to feel, that though our situation is open to the 
eyes of all mankind, no mortal conceives for us the half of what 
we suffer. Nay, it is chiefly from this regard to the sentiments 
of mankind, that we persue riches and avoid poverty. For to 
what purpose is all the toil and bustle of this world? What is 
the end of avarice and ambition, of the pursuit of wealth, of 
power and pre-eminence? Is it to supply the necessities of Na¬ 
ture? The wages of the meanest labourer can supply them. 
We see that they afford him food and clothing, the comforts 
of a house and of a family. If we examine his oeconomy with 
rigour, we should find that he spends a great part of them up¬ 
on conveniences, which may be regarded as superfluities, and 
that, upon extraordinary occasions, he can give something even 
to vanity and distinction: what then is the cause of our aversion 


86 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


to his situation, and why should those who have been educated 
in the higher ranks of life regard it as worse than death, to be 
reduced to live, even without labour, upon the same simple 
fare with him, to dwell under the same lowly roof, and to be 
clothed in the same humble attire ? Do they imagine that their 
stomach is better, or their sleep sounder, in a palace than in a 
cottage? The contrary has been so often observed, and, in¬ 
deed, is so very obvious, though it had never been observed, 
that there is nobody ignorant of it. From whence, then arises 
that emulation which runs through all the different ranks of 
men, and what are the advantages, which we propose by that 
great purpose of human life which we call bettering our con¬ 
dition? To be observed, to be attended to, to be taken notice 
of with sympathy, complacency, and approbation, are all the 
advantages which we can propose to derive from it. It is the 
vanity, not the ease or the pleasure, which interests us. But 
vanity is always founded upon the belief of our being the ob¬ 
ject of attention and approbation. The rich man glories in 
his riches, because he feels that they naturally draw upon him 
the attention of the world, and that mankind are disposed to 
go along with him in all those agreeable emotions with which 
the advantages of his situation so readily inspire him. At the 
thought of this, his heart seems to swell and dilate itself with¬ 
in him, and he is fonder of his wealth, upon this account, than 
for all the other advantages it procures him The poor man, 
on the contrary, is ashamed of his poverty. He feels that it 
either places him out of the sight of mankind, or that, if they 
take any notice of him, they have, however, scarce any fellow- 
feeling with the misery and distress which he suffers. He is 
mortified upon both accounts; for though to be overlooked,, 
and to be disapproved of, are things entirely different, yet as 
obscurity covers us from the daylight of honour and approba¬ 
tion, to feel that we are taken no notice of, necessarily damps 
the most agreeable hope, and disappoints the most ardent de¬ 
sire, of human nature. The poor man goes out and comes 
in unheeded, and when in the midst of a croud, is in the 
same obscurity as if shut up in his own hovel. Those hum- 


Sect. III. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


87 


ble cares and painful attentions which occupy those in his si¬ 
tuation, afford no amusement to the dissipated ard the gay. 
They turn away their eyes from him; or if the extremity of 
his distress forces them to look at him, it is only to spurn so 
disagreeable an object from among them. The fortunate and 
the proud wonder at the insolence of human wretchedness, 
that it should dare to present itself before them, and with the 
loathsome aspect of its misery presume to disturb the serenity 
of their happiness. The man of rank and distinction, on the 
contrary, it observed by all the world. Every body is eager 
to look at him, and to conceive, at least by sympathy, that joy 
and exultation with which his circumstances naturally inspire 
him. His actions are the objects of the public care. Scarce a 
word, scarce a gesture, can fall from him that is altogether ne¬ 
glected. In a great assembly he is the person upon whom all 
direct their eyes; it is upon him that their passions seem all to 
wait with expectation, in order to receive that movement and 
direction which he shall impress upon them; and if his beha¬ 
viour is not altogether absurd, he has, every moment, an op¬ 
portunity of interesting mankind, and of rendering himself the 
object of the observation and fellow-feeling of every body a- 
bout him. It is this, which, notwithstanding the restraint it 
imposes, notwithstanding the loss of liberty with which it is 
attended, renders greatness the object of envy, and compensates, 
in the opinion of mankind, all that toil, all that anxiety, all 
those mortifications which must be undergone in the pursuit 
of it; and what is of yet more consequence, all that leisure, 
all that ease, all that careless security which are forfeited for 
ever by the acquisition. 

When we consider the condition of the great, in those de¬ 
lusive colours in which the imagination is apt to paint it, it 
seems to be almost the abstract idea of a perfect and happy 
state. It is the very state which, in all our waking dreams 
and idle reveries, we had sketched out to ourselves as the final 
object of all our desires. We feel, therefore, a peculiar sym¬ 
pathy with the satisfaction of those who are in it. We favour 
all their inclinations, and forward all their wishes. What pity. 


88 


OP PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


we think, that any thing should spoil and corrupt so agreeable 
a situation! We could even wish them immortal; and it seems 
hard to us, that death should at last put an end to such per¬ 
fect enjoyment. It is cruel, we think, in Nature, to compel 
them from their exalted stations to that humble, but hospitable 
home, which she has provided for all her children. Great 
King, live for ever! is the compliment, which, after the man¬ 
ner of eastern adultation, we should readily make them, if ex¬ 
perience did not teach us its absurdity. Every calamity that 
befalls them, every injury that is done them, excites in the 
breast of the spectator ten times more compassion and resent¬ 
ment than he would have felt, had the same things happened 
to other men. It is the misfortunes of Kings only which af¬ 
ford the proper subjects for tragedy. They resemble, in this 
respect, the misfortunes of lovers. Those two situations are 
the chief which interest us upon the theatre; because, in 
spite of all that reason and experience can tell us to the con¬ 
trary, the prejudices of the imagination attach to these two 
states a happiness superior to any other. To disturb or to put 
an end to such perfect enjoyment seems to be the most atro¬ 
cious of all injuries. The traitor who conspires against the 
life of his monarch, is thought a greater monster than any 
other murderer. All the innocent blood that was shed in the 
civil wars, provoked less indignation than the death of Charles 
I. A stranger to human nature, who saw the indifference of 
men about the misery of their inferiors, and the regret and in¬ 
dignation which they feel for the misfortunes aud sufferings of 
those above them, would be apt to imagine, that pain must be 
more agonizing, and the convulsions of death more terrible, to 
persons of higher rank than those of meaner stations. 

Upon this disposition of mankind, to go along with all the 
passions of the rich and the powerful, is founded the distinction 
of ranks, and the order of society. Our obsequiousness to our 
superiors more frequently arises from our admiration for the 
advantages of their situation, than for any private expectations 
of benefit from their good-will. Their benefits can extend 
but to a few; but their fortunes interest almost every bodv. 


Sect. III. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


89 


We are eager to assist them in completing a system of hap¬ 
piness that approaches so near to perfection; and we desire 
to serve them for their own sake, without any other recom- 
pence but the vanity or the honour of obliging them. Nei¬ 
ther is our deference to their inclinations founded chiefly, 
or altogether, upon a regard to the utility of such submission, 
and to the order of society, which is best supported by it. Even 
when the order of society seems to require that we should op¬ 
pose them, we can hardly bring ourselves to do it. That kings 
are the servants of the people, to be obeyed, resisted, deposed, 
or punished, as the public conveniency may require, is the doc¬ 
trine of reason and philosophy; but it is not the doctrine of Na¬ 
ture. Nature would teach us to submit to them for their own 
sake, to tremble and bow down before their exalted station, to 
regard their smile as a reward sufficient to compensate any ser¬ 
vices, and to dread their displeasure, though no other evil were 
to follow from it, as the severest of all mortifications. To treat 
them in any respect as men, to reason and dispute with them 
upon ordinary occasions, requires such resolution, that there are 
few men whose magnanimity can support them in it, unless they 
are likewise assisted by familiarity and acquaintance. The 
strongest motives, the most furious passions, fear, hatred, and 
resentment, are scarce sufficient to balance this natural disposi¬ 
tion to respect them: and their conduct must, either justly or 
unjustly, have excited the highest degree of all those passions, 
before the bulk of the people can be brought to oppose them 
with violence, or to desire to see them either punished or de¬ 
posed. Even when the people have been brought this length, 
they are apt to relent every moment, and easily relapse into their 
habitual state of deference to those whom they have been ac¬ 
customed to look upon as their natural superiors. They can¬ 
not stand -the mortification of their monarch. Compassion 
soon takes the place of resentment, they forget all past provo¬ 
cations, their old principles of loyalty revive, and they run to 
re-establish the ruined authority of their old masters, with the 
same violence with which they had opposed it. The death of 
Charles I. brought about the restoration of the royal family. 


90 


OF rROrivIETY. 


Part I. 


Compassion for James II. when he was seized by tlie populace 
in making his escape cn ship board, had almost prevented the 
revolution, and made it go on more heavily than before. 

I)o the great seem insensible of the easy price at which they 
may acquire the public admiration; or do they seem to imag¬ 
ine that to them, as to other men, it must be the purchase 
either of sweat or of blood ? By what important accomplish¬ 
ments is the young nobleman instructed to support the dignity 
of his rank, and to render himself worthy of that superiority 
over his fellow-citizens, to which the virtue of his ancestors had 
raised them? Is it by knowledge, by industry, by patience, by 
self-denial, or by virtue of any kind? As all his words, as all 
his motions are attended to, he learns an habitual regard to 
every circumstance of ordinary behaviour, and studies to per¬ 
form all those small duties with the most exact propriety. As 
he is conscious how much he is observed, and how much man¬ 
kind are disposed to favour all his inclinations, he acts, upon 
the most indifferent occasions, with that freedom and elevation 
which the thought of this naturally inspires. I lis air, his man¬ 
ner, his deportment, all mark that elegant and graceful sense' 
of his own superiority, which those who are born to inferior 
stations can hardly ever arrive at. These are the arts by which 
he proposes to make mankind more easily submit to his au¬ 
thority, and to govern their inclinations according to his own 
pleasure: and in this he is seldom disappointed. These arts, 
supported by rank and pre-eminence, are, upon ordinary occa¬ 
sions, sufficient to govern the world. Lewis XIV. during 
the greater part of his reign, was regarded, not only in France, 
but over all Europe, as the most perfect model of a great 
prince. But what were the talents and virtues by which he 
acquired this great reputation? Was it by the scrupulous and 
and inflexible justice of all his undertakings, by the immense 
dangers and difficulties with which they were attended, or by 
the unwearied and unrelenting application with which he pur¬ 
sued them? Was it by his extensive knowledge, by his 
exquisite judgment, or by his heroic valour? It was by 
none of these qualities. But lie was, first of all, the most 


Sect. III. 


tV PROPRIETY. 


91 


powerful prince in Europe, and consequently held the high¬ 
est rank among kings; and then says his historian, “ he 
»< surpassed all his courtiers in the gracefulness of his shape* 
«< and the majectic beauty of his features. The sound of 
<( his voice, noble and affecting, gained those hearts which 
« his presence intimidated. He had a step and a deport- 
<* ment which could suit only him and his rank, and which 
« would have been ridiculous in any other person. The em- 
Ci barrassment which he occasioned to those who spoke to him* 
tf flattered that secret satisfaction with which he felt his own 
« superiority. The old officer, who was confounded and 
<( faultered in asking him a favour, and not being abletocon- 
“ elude his discourse, said to him: Sir, your majesty, I hope, 
i< will believe that I do not tremble thus before your ememies: 
“ had no difficulty to obtain what he demanded.” These 
frivolous accomplishments, supported by his rank, and, no 
doubt too, by a degree of other talents and virtues, which seems, 
however, not to have been much above mediocrity, established 
this prince in the esteem of his own age, and have drawn, even 
from posterity, a good deal of respect for his memory. Com¬ 
pared with these, in his own times, and in his own presence, 
no other virtue, it seems, appeared to have any merit. Know¬ 
ledge, industry, valour, and beneficence, trembled, were abash¬ 
ed, and lost all dignity before them. 

But it is not by accomplishments of this kind, that the man 
of inferior rank must hope to distinguish himself. Politeness 
is so much the virtue of the great, that it will do little honour 
to any body but themselves. The coxcomb, who imitates their 
manner, and affects to be eminent' by the superior propriety 
of his ordinary behaviour, is rewarded with a double share of 
contempt for his folly and presumption. Why should the 
man, whom nobody thinks it worth while to look at, be very 
anxious about the manner in which he holds up his head, or 
disposes of his arms while he walks through a room? He is 
occupied surely with a very superfluous attention, and with 
an attention too that marks a sense of his own importance, 
which no other man can go along with. The most perfect 

M 2 



92 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Fart I. 


modesty and plainness, joined to as much negligence as is con¬ 
sistent with the respect due to the company, ought to be the 
chief characteristics of the behaviour cf a private man. If 
ever he hopes to distinguish himself, it must be by more im¬ 
portant virtues. He must acquire dependants to balance the 
dependants of the great, and he has no other fund to pay them 
from, but the labour" of his body, and the activity of his mind. 
He must cultivate these therefore: he must acquire superior 
knowledge in his profession, and superior industry in the ex¬ 
ercise of it. He must be patient in labour, resolute in danger, 
and firm in distress. These talents he must bring into public 
view, by the difficulty, importance, and, at the same time, 
good judgment of his undertakings, and by the severe and un¬ 
relenting application with which he pursues them. Probity 
and prudence, generosity and frankness, must characterize his 
behaviour upon all ordinary occasions; and he must, at the 
same time, be forward to engage in all those situations, in 
which it requires the greatest talents and virtues to act with 
propriety, but in which the greasest applause is to be acquired 
by those who can acquit themselves with honour. With what 
impatience does the man of spirit and ambition, avIio is de¬ 
pressed by his situation, look round for some great opportu¬ 
nity to distinguish himself? No circumstances which'can af¬ 
ford this, appear to him undesirable. He even looks forward 
with satisfaction to the prospect of foreign war, or civil dis¬ 
sension; and, with secret transport and delight, sees through 
all the confusion and bloodshed which attend them, the pro¬ 
bability of those wished for occasions presenting themselves, 
in which he may draw upon himself the attention and admir¬ 
ation of mankind. The man of rank and distinction, on the 
contrary, whose whole glory consists in the propriety of his 
ordinary behaviour, who is contented with the humble re¬ 
nown which this can afford him, and has no talents to ac¬ 
quire any other, is unwilling to embarrass himself with what 
can be attended either with difficulty or distress. To fi¬ 
gure at a bail is his great triumph, and to succeed in an in¬ 
trigue of gallantry, his highest exploit. He has an aversion 


Sect. III. 


OF propriety. 


93 


to all public confusions, not from the love of mankind, for 
the great never look upon their inferiors as their fellow-crea¬ 
tures; nor yet from want of courage, for in that he is seldom 
defective; but from a consciousness that he possesses none 
of the virtues which are required in such situations, and that 
the public attention will certainly be drawn away from him 
by others. He may be willing to expose himself to some 
little danger, and to make a campaign when it happens to be 
the fashion. But he shudders with horror at the thought of 
any situation which demands the continual and long exertion 
of patience, industry, fortitude, and application of thought. 
These virtues are hardly ever to be met with in men who 
are born to those high stations. In all governments accord- 
ingly, even in monarchies, the highest offices are generally 
possessed, and the whole detail of the administration con¬ 
ducted, by men who are educated in the middle and inferior 
ranks of life, who have been carried forward by their own 
industry and abilities, though loaded with the jealousy, and 
opposed by the resentment, of all those who were born their 
superiors, and to whom the great, after having regarded them 
first with contempt, and afte^vards with envy, are at last con¬ 
tented to truckle with the same abject meanness with which 
they desire that the rest of mankind should behave to them¬ 
selves. 

It is the loss of this easy empire over the affections of man¬ 
kind which renders the fall from greatness so insupportable. 
When the family of the king of Macedon was led in triumph 
by Paulus jTmilius, their misfortunes, it is said, made them 
divide with their conqueror the attention of the Roman peo¬ 
ple. The sight of the royal children, whose tender age ren¬ 
dered them insensible of their situation, struct the spectators, 
amidst the public rejoicings and prosperity, with the ten- 
derest sorrow and compassion. The king appeared next in 
the procession; and seemed like one confounded and aston¬ 
ished, and bereft of all sentiment, by the greatness of his ca¬ 
lamities. His friends and ministers followed after him. As 
they moved along, they often cast their eyes upon their fallen 


94 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


sovereign, iand always burst into tears at tbe sight; their 
whole behaviour demonstrating that they thought not of their 
own misfortune, but were occupied entirely by the superior 
greatness of his. The generous Romans, on the contrary, 
beheld him with disdain and indignation, and regarded as un¬ 
worthy of all compassion the man who could be so mean- 
spirited as to bear to live under such calamities. Yet what 
did those calamities amount to? According to the greater 
part of historians, he was to spend the remainder of his days, 
under the protection of a powerful and humane people, in a 
state which in itself should seem worthy of envy, a state of 
plenty, ease, leisure, and security, from which it was impossi¬ 
ble for him even by liis own folly to fall. But he was no 
longer to be surrounded by that admiring mob of fools, flat¬ 
terers, and dependants, who had formerly been accustomed to 
attend upon all his motions. He was no longer to be gazed 
upon by multitudes, nor to have it in his power to render 
himself the object of their respect, their gratitude, their love, 
their admiration. The passions of nations were no longer 
to mould themselves upon his inclinations. This was that 
insupportable calamity which bereaved the king of all senti¬ 
ment; which made his friends forget their own misfortunes; 
and which the Roman magnanimity could scarce conceive 
how any man could be so mean-spirited as to bear to survive. 

“ Love,” says my Lord Rochfoucault, 44 is commonly suc- 
64 ceeded by ambition; but ambition is hardly ever succeeded 
44 by love.” That passion, when once it has got entire pos¬ 
session of the breast, will admit neither a rival nor a succes¬ 
sor. To those who have been accustomed to the possession 
or even to the hope of public admiration, all other pleasures 
sicken and decay. Of all the discarded statesmen, who, for 
their own ease have studied to get the better of ambition, and 
to despise those honours which they could no longer arrive 
at, how few have been able to succeed? The greater part 
have spent their time in the most listless and insipid indolence, 
chagrined at the thoughts of their own insignificancy, inca¬ 
pable of being interested in the occupations of private life, 


Sect. III. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


95 


without enjoyment, except when they talked of their former 
greatness, and without satisfaction, except when they were 
employed in some vain project to recover it. Are you in 
earnest resolved never to barter your liberty for the lordly 
servitude of a court, but to live free, fearless, and indepen¬ 
dent? lhere seems to be one way to continue in that vir¬ 
tuous resolution; and perhaps but one. Never enter the 
place from whence so few have been able to return; never 
come within the circle of ambition; nor ever bring yourself 
into comparison with those masters of the earth who have al¬ 
ready engrossed the attention of half mankind before you. 

Of such mighty importance does it appear to be, in the 
imaginations of men, to stand in that situation which sets 
them most in the view of general sympathy and attention. 
And thus, place, that great object which divides the wives 
of aldermen, is the end of half the labours of human life; 
and is the cause of all the tumult and bustle, all the rapine 
and injustice, which avarice and ambition have introduced 
into this world. People of sense, it is said, indeed despise 
place; that is, they despise sitting at the head of the table, 
and are indifferent who it is that is pointed out to the com¬ 
pany by that frivolous circumstance, which the smallest ad¬ 
vantage is capable of overbalancing. But rank, distinction, 
pre-eminence, no man despises, unless he is either raised very 
much above, or sunk very much below, the ordinary standard 
of human nature; unless he is either so confirmed in wisdom 
and real philosophy, as to be satisfied that, while the pro¬ 
priety of his conducts renders him the just object of appro¬ 
bation, it is of little consequence though he be neither at¬ 
tended to, nor approved of; or so habituated to the idea of 
his own meanness, so sunk in slothful and sottish indiffer¬ 
ence, as entirely to have forgot the desire, and almost the 
very wish, for superiority. 

As to become the natural object of the joyous congratula¬ 
tions and sympathetic attentions of mankind is, in this man¬ 
ner, the circumstance which gives to prosperity all its daz¬ 
zling splendour; so nothing darkens so much the gloom of 


96 


OF PROPRIETY. 


.Part T. 


adversity as to feel that our misfortunes are the objects, not 
of the fellow-feeling, but of the contempt and aversion of our 
brethren. It is upon this account that the most dreadful 
calamities are not always those which it is most difficult to 
support. It is often more mortifying to appear in public un¬ 
der small disasters, than under great misfortunes. The first 
excite no sympathy; but the second, though they may excite 
none that approaches to the anguish of the sufferer, call forth, 
however, a very lively compassion. The sentiments of the 
spectators are, in this last case, less wide of those of the suf¬ 
ferer, and their imperfect fellow-feeling lends him some as¬ 
sistance in supporting his misery. Before a gay assembly, a 
gentleman would be more mortified to appear covered with 
filth and rags than with blood and wounds. This last situa¬ 
tion would interest their pity; the other would provoke their 
laughter. The judge who orders a criminal to be set in the 
pillory, dishonours him more than if he had comdemned him 
to the scaffold. The great prince who, some years ago, caned 
a general officer at the head of his army, disgraced him ir¬ 
recoverably. The punishment would have been much less 
had he shot him through the body. By the laws of honour, 
to strike with a cane dishonours, to strike with a sword does 
not, for an obvious reason. Those slighter punishments, 
when inflicted on a gentleman, to whom dishonour is the 
greatest of all evils, come to be regarded among a humane 
and generous people, as the most dreadful of any. With re¬ 
gard to persons of that rank, therefore, they are universally 
laid aside, and the law, while it takes their life upon many oc¬ 
casions, respects their honour upon almost all. To scourge a 
person of quality, or to set him in the pillory, upon account 
of any crime whatever, is a brutality of which no European 
government, except that of Russia, is capable. 

A brave man is not rendered contemptible by being 
brought to the scaffold; he is by being set in the pillory. 
Ilis behaviour in the one situation may gain him universal 
esteem and admiration. No behaviour in the other can ren¬ 
der him agreeable. The sympathy of the spectators supports 


Sect. III. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


97 


him in the one case, and saves him from that shame, that con¬ 
sciousness, that his misery is felt by himself only, which is of 
all sentiments the most unsupportable. There is no sympa¬ 
thy in the other*, or, if there is any, it is not with his pain, 
which is a trifle, but with his consciousness of the want of 
sympathy with which this pain is attended. It is with his 
shame, not with his sorrow. Those who pity him, blush and 
hang down their heads for him. He droops in the same 
manner, and feels himself irrecoverably degraded by the pun¬ 
ishment, though not by the crime. The man, on the contrary, 
who dies with resolution, as he is naturally regarded with the 
erect aspect of esteem and approbation, so he wears himself the 
same undaunted countenance; and, if the crime does not de¬ 
prive him of the respect of others, the punishment never 
will. He has no suspicion that his situation is the object of 
contempt or derision to any body, and he can, with propriety, 
assume the air, not only of perfect serenity, but of triumph 
and exultation. 

« Great dangers,” say the Cardinal de Retz, “ have their 
« charms, because there is some glory to be got, even when 
a we miscarry. But moderate dangers have nothing but 
cc what is horrible, because the loss of reputation always at- 
“ tends the want of success.” His maxim has the same found¬ 
ation with what we have been just now observing with regard 
to punishments. 

Human virtue is superior to pain, to poverty, to danger, 
and to death; nor does it even require its utmost efforts to 
despise them. But to have its misery exposed to insult and 
derision, to be led in triumph, to be set up for the hand of 
scorn to point at, is a situation in which its constancy is much 
more apt to fail. Compared with the contempt of mankind, 
all other external evils are easily supported. 


N 


98 


OF PROPRIETY. 


Part I. 


CHAPTER. III. 

Of the corruption of our moral sentiments , which is occasioned 
by this disposition to admire the rich and the great , 
and to despise or neglect persons of poor 
and mean condition . 

THIS disposition to admire, and almost to worship the 
rich and the powerful, and to despise, or, at least, to neglect 
persons of poor and mean condition, though necessary both, 
to establish and to maintain the distinction of ranks and the 
order of society, is, at the same time, the great and most uni¬ 
versal cause of the corruption of our moral sentiments. That 
wealth and greatness are often regarded with the respect and 
admiration which are due only to wisdom and virtue; and 
that the contempt, of which vice and folly are the only pro¬ 
per objects, is often most unjustly bestowed upon poverty 
and weakness, has been the complaint in moralists of all ages. 

We desire both to be respectable, and to be respected. 
We dread both to be contemptible, and to be contemned. 
But, upon coming into the world, we soon find that wisdom 
and virtue are by no means the sole objects of respect; nor 
vice and folly, of contempt. We frequently see the respect¬ 
ful attentions of the world more strongly directed towards 
the rich and the great, than towards the wise and the virtu¬ 
ous. We see frequently the vices and follies of the powerful 
much less despised than the poverty and weakness of the in¬ 
nocent. To deserve, to acquire, and to enjoy the respect 
and admiration of mankind, are the great objects of ambition 
and emulation. Two different roads are presented to us, 
equally leading to the attainment of this so much desired 
object; the one, by the study of wisdom, and the practice of 
virtue; the other, by the acquisition of w r ealth and greatness. 
Two different characters are presented to our emulation; the 
one, of proud ambition and ostentatious avidity; the other. 


Sect. III. 


«F PROPRIETY. 


99 


of humble modesty and equitable justice. Two different 
models, two different pictures, are held out to us, according 
to which we may fashion our own character and behaviour? 
the one more gaudy and glittering in its colouring; the other 
more correct and more exquisitely beautiful in its outline; 
the one forcing itself upon the notice of every wandering 
eye; the other attracting the attention of scarce any body but 
the most studious and careful observer. They are the wise 
and the virtuous chiefly, a select, though I am afraid, but a 
small party, who are the real and steady admirers of wisdom 
and virtue. The great mob of mankind are the admirers 
and worshipers, and, what may seem more extraordinary, 
most frequently the disinterested admirers and worshippers, 
of wealth and greatness, 

The respect which we feel for wisdom and virtue is, no 
doubt, different from that which we conceive for wealth and 
greatness; and it requires no very nice discernment to dis¬ 
tinguish the difference. But, notwithstanding this difference, 
those sentiments bear a very considerable resemblance to one 
another. In some particular features they are, no doubt, dif¬ 
ferent, but in the general air of the countenance, they seem 
to be so very nearly the same, that inattentive observers are 
very apt to mistake the one for the other. 

In equal degrees of merit, there is scarce any man who 
does not respect more the rich and the great, than the poor 
and the humble. With most men the presumption and va¬ 
nity of the former are much more admired, than the real and 
solid merit of the latter. It is scarce agreeable to good mo¬ 
rals, or even to good language, perhaps, to say, that mere 
wealth and greatness, abstracted from merit and virtue, de¬ 
serve our respect. We must acknowledge, however, that 
they almost constantly obtain it; and they may, therefore, 
be considered as, in some respects, the natural objects of it. 
Those exalted stations may, no doubt, be completely de¬ 
graded by vice and folly. But the vice and folly must be 
very great, before they can operate this complete degradation. 
'The profligacy of a man of fashion is looked upon with much. 

n 2 


105 


OF PROPRIETY* 


Part I. 


less contempt and aversion, than that of a man of meaner 
condition. In the latter, a single transgression of the rules of 
temperance and propriety is commonly more resented, than the 
constant and avowed contempt of them ever is in the former. 

In the middling and inferior stations of life, the road to vir¬ 
tue and that to fortune, to such fortune, at least, as men in 
such stations can reasonably expect to acquire, are, happily, 
in most cases very nearly the same. In all the middling and 
inferior professions, real and solid professional abilities, joined 
to prudent, just, firm, and temperate conduct, can very sel¬ 
dom fail of success. Abilities will even sometimes prevail 
where the conduct is by no means correct. Either habitual 
imprudence, however, or injustice, or weakness, or profligacy, 
will always cloud, and sometimes depress altogether, the most 
splendid professional abilities. Men in the inferior and mid¬ 
dling stations of life, besides, can never be great enough to 
be above the law, which must generally overawe them into 
some sort of respect for, at least, the more important rules of 
justice. The success of such people, too, almost always de¬ 
pends upon the favour and good opinion of their neighbours 
and equals; and without a tolerably regular conduct, these 
can very seldom be obtained. The good old proverb, there¬ 
fore, That honesty is the best policy , holds, in such situations, 
almost always perfectly true. In such situations, therefore, 
we may generally expect a considerable degree of virtue; and, 
fortunately for the good morals of society, these are the situ¬ 
ations of by far the greater part of mankind. 

In the superior stations of life, the case is unhappily not 
always the same. In the courts of princes, in the drawing¬ 
rooms of the great, where success and preferment depend, 
not upon the esteem of intelligent and well-informed equals, 
but upon the fanciful and foolish favour of ignorant, pre¬ 
sumptuous, and proud superiors; flattery and falsehood too 
often prevail over merit and abilities. In such societies, the 
abilities to please are more regarded than the abilities to serve. 
In quiet and peaceable times, when the storm is at a distance, 
the prince, or great man, wishes only to be amused, and is’ 


Sect. III. 


0 V PROPRIETY. 


101 


even apt to fancy that he has scarce any occasion for the ser¬ 
vice of any body, or that those who amuse him are sufficiently 
able to serve him. The external graces, the frivolous accom¬ 
plishments of that impertinent and foolish thing called a man 
of fashion, are commonly more admired than the solid and 
masculine virtues of a warrior, a statesman, a philosopher, or 
a legislator. All the great and awful virtues, all the virtues 
which can fit, either for the council, the-senate, or the field, 
are, by the insolent and insignificant flatterers, who commonly 
figure the most in such corrupted societies, held in the utmost 
contempt and derision. When the duke of Sully was called 
upon by Lewis the XIII. to give his advice in some great emer¬ 
gency, he observed the favourites and courtiers whispering to 
one another, and smiling at his unfashionable appearance. 
" Whenever your majesty’s father,” said the old warrior and 
statesman, “ did me the honour to consult me, he ordered the 
“ buffoons of the court to retire into the antechamber.” 

It is from our disposition to admire, and consequently to 
imitate, the rich and the great, that they enabled to set, or to 
lead, what is called the fashion. Their dress is the fashionable 
dress; the language of their conversation, the fashionable stylej 
their air and deportment, |Jie fashionable behaviour. Even 
their vices and follies are fashionable; and the greater part of 
men are proud to imitate and resemble them in the very qual¬ 
ities which dishonour and degrade them. Vain men often give 
themselves airs of a fashionable profligacy, which, in their 
hearts, they do not approve of, and of which, perhaps, they 
are really not guilty. They desire to be praised for what they 
themselves do not think praise-worthy, and are ashamed of un¬ 
fashionable virtues which they sometimes practise in secret, 
and for which they have secretly some degree of real venera¬ 
tion. They are hypocrites of wealth and greatness, as well 
as of religion and virtue; and a vain man is as apt to pretend 
to be what he is not, in the one way, as a cunning man as in 
the other. He assumes the equipage and splendid way of liv¬ 
ing of his superiors, without considering that whatever may be 
praise-worthy in any of these, derives its whole merit and pro- 


102 


Part I. 


OR PROPRIETY. 

priety from its suitableness to that situation and fortune, which 
both require, and can easily support the expence. Many 
a poor man places his glory in being thought rich, without 
considering, that the duties (if one may call such follies by so 
very venerable a name) which that reputation imposes upon 
him, must soon reduce him to beggary, and render his situa¬ 
tion still more unlike that of those whom he admires and imi¬ 
tates, than it had been originally. 

To attain to this envied situation, the candidates for fortune 
too frequently abandon the paths of virtue; for unhappily, the 
road which leads to the one, and that which leads to the other, 
lie sometimes in very opposite directions. But the ambitious 
man flatters himself that, in the splendid situation to which he 
advances, he will have so many means of commanding the re¬ 
spect and admiration of mankind, and will be enabled to act 
with such superior propriety and grace, that the lustre of his 
future conduct will entirely cover, or efface, the foulness of the 
steps by which he arrived at that elevation. In many govern¬ 
ments the candidates for the highest stations are above the law; 
and if they can attain the object of their ambition, they have 
no fear of being called to account for the means by which they 
acquired it. They often ende^rour, therefore, not only by 
fraud and falsehood, the ordinary and vulgar arts of intrigue 
and cabal; but sometimes by the perpetration of the most enor¬ 
mous crimes, by murder and assassination, by rebellion and 
civil war, to supplant and destroy those who oppose or stand 
in the way of their greatness. They more frequently miscarry 
than succeed; and commonly gain nothing but the disgraceful 
punishment which is due to their crimes. But, though they 
should be so lucky as to attain that wished-for greatness, they 
are always most miserably disappointed in the happiness which 
they expect to enjoy in it. It is not ease or pleasure, but al¬ 
ways honour, of one kind or another, though frequently an 
honour very ill understood, that the ambitious man really pur¬ 
sues. But the honour of his exalted station appears, both in 
his own eyes, and in those of other people, polluted and de¬ 
filed by the baseness of the means through which he rose to it. 


Sect. III. 


OF PROPRIETY. 


I OS 


Though by the profusion of every liberal expence-, though by 
excessive indulgence in every profligate pleasure, the wretched, 
but usual, resource of ruined characters; though by the hur¬ 
ry of public business, or by the prouder and more dazzling 
tumult of war, he may endeavour to efface, both from his own 
memory and from that of other people, the remembrance of 
what he has done, that remembrance never fails to pursue him. 
He invokes in vain the dark and dismal powers of forgetfulness 
and oblivion. He remembers himself what he has done, and 
that remembrance tells him that other people must likewise 
remember it. Amidst all the gaudy pomp of the most osten¬ 
tatious greatness; amidst the venal and vile adulation of the 
great and of the learned; amidst the more innocent, though 
more foolish acclamations of the common people; amidst all 
the pride of conquest and the triumph of successful war, he 
is still secretly pursued by the avenging furies of shame and 
remorse; and, while glory seems to surround him on all sides, 
he himself, in his own imagination, sees black and foul infamy 
fast pursuing him, and every moment ready to overtake him 
from behind. Even the great Caesar, though he had the mag¬ 
nanimity to dismiss his guards, could not dismiss his suspicions. 
The remembrance of Pharsalia still haunted and pursued him. 
When, at the request of the Senate, he had the generosity to 
pardon Marcellus, he told that assembly, that he was not una¬ 
ware of the designs which were carrying on against his life; but 
that as he had lived long enough both for nature and for glory, 
he was contented to die, and therefore despised all conspiracies. 
He had, perhaps, lived long enough for nature. But the man 
who felt himself the object of such deadly resentment, from 
those whose favour he wished to gain, and whom he still wish¬ 
ed to consider as his friends, had certainly lived too long for 
real glory; or for all die happiness which he could ever hope 
to enjoy in the love and esteem of his equals. 


THE 


THEORY 

OF 

MO M<A E> SEJYTIME J¥ TS . 


PART II. 

Of Merit and Demerit; or, of the Objects 
of Reward and Punishment. 

Consisting of Three Sections. 


SECTION I. 

OF THE SENSE OF MERIT AND DEMERIT. 


—— 

INTRODUCTION. 

1 HERE is another set of qualities ascribed to the actions 
and conduct of mankind, distinct from their propriety or im¬ 
propriety, their decency or ungracefulness, and which are the 
objects of a distinct species of approbation and disapprobation. 
These are, Merit and Demerit, the qualities of deserving re¬ 
ward, and of deserving punishment. 

It has already been observed, that the sentiment or affec- 


Sect. I. 


OF MERIT AND DEMERIT. 


105 


tion of the heart, from which any action proceeds, and upon 
which its whole virtue or vice depends, maybe considered un¬ 
der two different aspects, or in two different relations: first, 
in relation to the cause or object which excites it; and, se¬ 
condly, in relation to the end which it proposes, or to the ef¬ 
fect which it tends to produce: that upon the suitableness or 
unsuitableness, upon the proportion or disproportion which the 
affection seems to bear to the cause or object which excites it, 
depends the propriety or impropriety, the decency or ungrace¬ 
fulness of the consequent action, and that upon the beneficial 
or hurtful effects which the affection proposes or tends to pro¬ 
duce, depends the merit or demerit, the good or ill desert of 
the action, to which it gives occasion. Wherein consists our 
sense of the propriety or impropriety of actions, has been ex¬ 
plained in the former part of this discourse. We come now 
to consider, wherein consists that of their good or ill desert. 


CHAPTER I. 

That whatever appears to be the proper object of gratitude , ap- 
pears to deserve reward; and that , in the same man - 
ner, whatever appears to be the proper object of 
resentment , appears to deserve punishment . 

TO us, therefore, that action must appear to deserve reward, 
which appears to be the proper and approved object of that 
sentiment, which most immediately and directly prompts us 
to reward, or to do good to another. And in the same man¬ 
ner, that action must appear to deserve punishment, which 
appears to be the proper and approved object of that sentiment 
which most immediately and directly prompts us to punish, or 
to inflict evil upon another. 

The sentiment which most immediately and directly prompts 
us to reward, is gratitude; that which most immediately and 
directly prompts us to punish, is resentment. 


o 


106 


OF MERIT 


Part. II. 


To us, therefore, that action must appear to deserve reward, 
which appears to be the proper and approved object of grati¬ 
tude; as, on the other hand, that action must appear to de¬ 
serve punishment, which appears to be the proper and approv¬ 
ed object of resentment. 

To reward is to recompence, to remunerate, to return good 
for good received. To punish, too, is to recompence, to re¬ 
munerate, though in a different manner; it is to return evil 
for evil that has been done. 

There are some other passions, besides gratitude and re¬ 
sentment, which interest us in the happiness or misery of o- 
thers; but there are none which so directly excite us to be the 
instruments of either. The love and esteem which grow upon 
acquaintance and habitual approbation, necessarily lead us to 
be pleased with the good fortune of the man who is the object 
of such agreeable emotions, and consequently, to be willing to 
lend a hand to promote it. Our love, however, is fully satis¬ 
fied, though his good fortune should be brought about with¬ 
out our assistance. All that this passion desires is to see him 
happy, without regarding who was the author of his prosperity. 
But gratitude is not to be satisfied in this manner. If the per¬ 
son to whom we owe many obligations is made happy without 
our assistance, though it pleases our love, it does not content 
our gratitude. Till we have recompensed him, till we our¬ 
selves have been instrumental in promoting his happiness, we 
feel ourselves still loaded with that debt which his past servi¬ 
ces have laid upon us. 

The hatred and dislike, in the same manner, which grow 
upon habitual, disapprobation, would often lead us to take a 
malicious pleasure in the misfortune of the man whose con¬ 
duct and character excite so painful a passion. But though 
dislike and hatred harden us against all sympathy, and some¬ 
times dispose us even to rejoice at the distress of another, yet 
if there is no resentment in the case, if neither we nor our 
friends have received any great personal provocation, these 
passions would not naturally lead us to wish to be instrument¬ 
al in bringing it about. Though we could fear no punish- 


Sect. I. 


AND DEMERIT. 


107 


ment in consequence of our having had some hand in it, we 
would rather that it should happen by other means. To one 
under the dominion of violent hatred, it would be agreeable 
perhaps to hear, that the person whom he abhorred and de¬ 
tested was killed by some accident. But if he had the least 
spark of justice, which, though this passion is not very favour¬ 
able to virtue, he might still have, it would hurt him exces¬ 
sively to have been himself, even without design, the occasion 
of this misfortune. Much more would the very thought of 
voluntarily contributing to it, shock him beyond all measure. 
He would reject with horror even the imagination of so exe¬ 
crable a design j and if he could imagine himself capable of 
such an enormity, he would begin to regard himself in the 
same odious light in which he had considered the person who 
was the object of his dislike. But it is quite otherwise with 
resentment: if the person who had done us some great injury, 
who had murdered our father or our brother, for example, 
should soon afterwards die of a fever, or even be brought to 
the scaffold upon account of some other crime, though it might 
sooth our hatred, it would not fully gratify our resentment. 
Resentment would prompt us to desire, not only that he should 
be punished, but that he should be punished by our means, 
and upon account of that particular injury which he had done 
to us. Resentment cannot be fully gratified unless the of¬ 
fender is not only made to grieve in his turn, but to grieve 
for that particular wrong which we have suffered from him. 
He must be made to repent and be sorry for this very action, 
that others, through fear of the like punishment, may be ter¬ 
rified from being guilty of the like offence. The natural gra¬ 
tification of this passion tends, of its own accord, to produce 
all the political ends of punishment; the correction of the 
criminal, and the example to the public. 

Gratitude and resentment, therefore, are the sentiments 
which most immediately and directly prompt to reward and 
to punish. To us, therefore, he must appear to deserve re¬ 
ward, who appears to be the proper and approved object of 

o 2 


108 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


gratitude; and he to deserve punishment, who appears to be 
that of resentment. 




CHAPTER. II. 

Of the proper objects of gratitude and resentment . 

TO be the proper and approved object either of gratitude 
or resentment, can mean nothing but to be the object of that 
gratitude, and of that resentment, which naturally seems pro¬ 
per, and is approved of. 

But these, as well as all the other passions of human na¬ 
ture, seem proper, and are approved of, when the heart of 
every impartial spectator entirely sympathizes with them, 
when every indifferent by-stander entirely enters into, and 
goes along with them. 

He, therefore, appears, to deserve reward, who, to some 
person or persons, is the natural object of a gratitude which 
every human heart is disposed to beat time to, and thereby ap¬ 
plaud : and he on the other hand, appears to deserve punish¬ 
ment, who in the same manner is to some person or persons 
the natural object of a resentment which the breast of every 
reasonable man is ready to adopt and sympathize with. To us, 
surely, that action must appear to deserve reward, which every 
body who knows of it would wish to reward, and therefore 
delights to see rewarded: and that action must as surely ap- 
appear to deserve punishment, which every body who hears 
of it is angry with, and upon that account rejoices to see 
punished. 

1. As we sympathize with the joy of our companions when 
in prosperity, so we join with them in the complacency and 
satisfaction with which they naturally regard whatever is the 
cause of their good fortune. We enter into the love and 
affection which they conceive for it, and begin to love it too. 
We should be sorry for their sakes, if it was destroyed or even 


Sect. I. 


AND DEMERIT. 


109 


if it was placed at too great a distance from them, and out of 
the reach of their care and protection, though they should lose 
nothing by its absence, except the pleasure of seeing it. If it 
is man who has thus been the fortunate instrument of the hap¬ 
piness of his brethren, this is still more peculiarly the case. 
When we see one man assisted, protected, relieved by another, 
our sympathy with the joy of the person who receives the bene¬ 
fit, serves only to animate our fellow-feeling with his gratitude 
towards him who bestows it. When we look upon the per¬ 
son who is the cause of his pleasure with the eyes with which 
we imagine he must look upon him, his benefactor seems to 
stand before us in the most engaging and amiable light. We 
readily therefore sympathize with the grateful affection which 
he conceives for a person to whom he has been so much o- 
bliged; and consequently, applaud the returns which he is 
disposed to make for the good offices conferred upon him. 
As we entirely enter into the affection from which these re¬ 
turns proceed, they necessarily seem every way proper and 
suitable to their object. 

2. In the same manner, as we sympathize with the sorrow 
of our fellow-creature whenever we see his distress, so we 
likewise enter into his abhorrence and aversion for whatever 
has given occasion to it. Our heart, as it adopts and beats 
time to his grief, so it is likewise animated with that spirit 
by which he endeavours to drive away or destroy the cause 
of it. The indolent and passive fellow-feeling by which we 
accompany him in his sufferings, readily gives way to that more 
vigorous and active sentiment by which we go along with him 
in the effort he makes, either to repel them, or to gratify his 
aversion to what has given occasion to them. This is still 
more peculiarly the case, when it is man who lias caused them. 
When we see one man oppressed or injured by another, the 
sympathy which we feel with the distress of the sufferer, seems 
to serve only to animate our fellow-feeling with his resentment 
against the offender. We are rejoiced to see him attack his 
adversary in his turn, and are eager and ready to assist him 
whenever he exerts himself for defence, or even for ven- 


110 


OI« MERIT 


Part II. 


geance within a certain degree. If the injured should perish 
in the quarrel, we not only sympathize with the real resent¬ 
ment of his friends and relations, but with the imaginary re¬ 
sentment which in fancy we lend to the dead, who is no longer 
capable of feeling, or any other human sentiment. But as we 
put ourselves in his situation, as we enter, as it were, into his 
body, and in our imaginations, in some measure, animate anew 
the deformed and mangled carcase of the slain, when we bring 
home in this manner his case to our own bosoms, we feel, upon 
this, as upon many other occasions, an emotion which the person 
principally concerned is incapable of feeling, and which yet we 
feel by an illusive sympathy with him. The sympathetic tears 
which we shed for that immense and irretrievable loss, which in 
our fancy he appears to have sustained, seem to be but a small 
part of the duty which we owe him. The injury which he has 
suffered demands, we think, a principal part of our attention. 
We feel that resentment which we imagine he ought to feel, 
and which he would feel if in his cold and lifeless body there 
remained any consciousness or what passes upon earth. His 
blood, we think, calls aloud for vengeance. The very ashes 
of the dead seem to be disturbed at the thought that his inju¬ 
ries are to pass unrevenged. The Errors which are supposed 
to haunt the bed of the murderer, the ghosts which supersti¬ 
tion imagines rise from their graves to demand vengeance upon 
those who brought them to an untimely end, all take their ori¬ 
gin from this natural sympathy with the imaginary resentment 
of the slain. And with regard, at least, to this most dreadful 
of all crimes, Nature, antecedent to all reflections upon the 
utility of punishment, has in this manner stampted upon the 
human heart, in the strongest and most indelible characters, 
an immediate and instinctive approbation of the sacred and ne¬ 
cessary law of retaliation. 


Sect. I. 


AND DEMERIT. 


Ill 


CHAPTER III. 

That where there is no approbation of the conduct of the person 
who confers the beneft , there is little sympathy with the gra¬ 
titude of him who receives it: and that , on the contrary, 
where there is no disapprobation of the motives of the person 
who does the mischief there is no sort of sympathy with the 
resentment of him who suffers it. 

IT is to be observed, however, that, how beneficial soever 
on the one hand, or how hurtful soever on the other, the ac¬ 
tions of intentions of the person who acts may have been 
to the person who is, if I may say so, acted upon, yet if in the 
one case there appears to have been no propriety in the mo¬ 
tives of the agent, if we cannot enter into the affections which 
influenced his conduct, we have little sympathy with the gra¬ 
titude of the person who receives the benefit: or if, in the other 
case, there appears to have been' no impropriety in the motives 
of the agent, if, on the contrary, the affections which influenced 
his conduct, are such as we must necessarily enter into, we can 
have no sort of sympathy with the resentment of the person who 
suffers. Little gratitude seems due in the one case, and all sort 
of resentment seems unjust in the other. The one action seems 
to merit little reward, the other to deserve no punishment. 

1. First, I say, That wherever we cannot sympathize with 
the affections of the agent, wherever there seems to be no 
propriety in the motives which influenced his conduct, we are 
less disposed to enter into the gratitude of the person who re¬ 
ceived the benefit of his actions. A very small return seems 
due to that foolish and profuse generosity which confers the 
greatest benefits from the most trivial motives, and gives an 
estate to a man merely because his name and sirname happen 
to be the same with those of the giver. Such services do not 
seem to demand any proportionable recompcnce. Our con¬ 
tempt for the folly of the agent, hinders us from thoroughly 


112 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


entering into the gratitude of the person to whom the good 
office has been done. His benefactor seems unworthy of it. 
As when we place ourselves in the situation of the person 
obliged, we feel that we could conceive no great reverence 
for such a benefactor, we easily absolve him from a great deal 
of that submissive veneration and esteem which we should think 
due to a more respectable character; and provided he always 
treats his weak friend with kindness and humanity, we are will¬ 
ing to excuse him from many attentions and regards which we 
should demand to a worthier patron. Those Princes, who 
have heaped, with the greatest profusion, wealth, power, and 
honours, upon their favourites, have seldom excited that de¬ 
gree of attachment to their persons which has often been ex¬ 
perienced by those who were more frugal of their favours. 
The well natured, but injudicious prodigality of James the 
First of Great Britain, seems to have attached nobody to his 
person; and that Prince, notwithstanding his social and harm¬ 
less disposition, appears to have lived and died without a friend. 
The whole gentry and nobility of England exposed their lives 
and and fortunes in the cause of his more frugal and distin¬ 
guishing son, notwithstanding the coldness and distant severity 
of his ordinary deportment. 

2. Secondly, I say. That wherever the conduct of the agent 
appears to have been entirely directed by motives and affections 
which we thoroughly enter into and approve of, we can have no 
sort of sympathy with the resentment of the sufferer, how great 
soever the mischief which may have been done to him. When 
two people quarrel, if we take part with, and entirely adopt 
the resentment of one of them, it is impossible that we should 
enter into that of the other. Our sympathy with the person 
whose motives we go along with, and whom therefore we look 
upon as in the right, cannot but harden us against all fellow- 
feeling with the other, whom we necessarily regard as in the 
wrong. Whatever this last, therefore, may have suffered, 
while it is no more than what we ourselves should have wished 
him to suffer, while it is no more than what our own sympa¬ 
thetic indignation rvould have prompted us to inflict upon him, 


Sect. I. 


AND DEMERIT. 


113' 


it cannot either displease or provoke us. When an inhuman 
murderer is brought to the scaffold, though we have some 
compassion for his misery, we can have no sort of fellow-feel¬ 
ing with his resentment, if he should be so absurd as to ex¬ 
press any against either his prosecutor or his judge. The na¬ 
tural tendency of their just indignation against so vile a cri¬ 
minal is indeed the most fatal and ruinous to him. But it is 
impossible that we should be displeased with the tendency of 
a sentiment, which, when we bring the case home to ourselves, 
we feel that we cannot avoid adopting. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Recapitulation of the foregoing chapters. 

1. WE do not, therefore, thoroughly and heartily sympa¬ 
thize with the gratitude of one man towards another, merely 
because this other has been the cause of his good fortune, 
unless he has been the cause of it from motives which we en¬ 
tirely go along with. Our heart must adopt the principles 
of the agent, and go along with all the affections which influ¬ 
enced his conduct, before it can entirely sympathize with, 
and beat time to, the gratitude of the person who has been 
benefited by his actions. If in the conduct of the benefac¬ 
tor there appears to have been no propriety, how beneficial 
soever its effects, it does not seem to demand, or necessarily 
to require, any proportionable recompense. 

But when to the beneficent tendency of the action is join¬ 
ed the propriety of the affection from which it proceeds, 
when we entirely sympathize and go along with the motives 
of the agent, the love which we conceive for him upon his 
own account, enhances and enlivens our fellow-feeling with 
the gratitude of those who owe their prosperity to his good 
conduct. His actions seem then to demand, and, if I may 
say so, to call aloud for a proportionable recompense. We 

p 




114 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


then entirely enter into that gratitude which prompts to be¬ 
stow it. The benefactor seems then to be the proper object 
of reward, when we thus entirely sympathize with, and ap¬ 
prove of, that sentiment which prompts to reward him. 
When we approve of, and go along with, the affection from 
which the action proceeds, we most necessarily approve of 
the action, and regard the person towards whom it is direct¬ 
ed as its proper and suitable object. 

2. In the same manner, we cannot at all sympathize with 
the resentment of one man against another, merely because 
this other has been the cause of his misfortune, unless he 
has been the cause of it from motives which we cannot en¬ 
ter into. Before we can adopt the resentment of the suf¬ 
ferer, we must disapprove of the motives of the agent, and 
feel that our heart renounces all sympathy with the affec¬ 
tions which influenced his conduct. If there appears to have 
been no impropriety in these, how fatal soever the tendency 
of the action which proceeds from them to those against 
whom it is directed, it does not seem to deserve any punish¬ 
ment, or to be the proper object of any resentment. 

But when to the hurtfulness of the action is joined the 
impropriety of the affection from whence it proceeds, when 
our heart rejects with abhorrence all fellow-feeling with the 
motives of the agent, we then heartily and entirely sympa¬ 
thize with the resentment of the sufferer. Such actions 
seem then to deserve, and, if I may say so, to call aloud for, 
a proportionable punishment; and we entirely enter into, 
and thereby approve of, that resentment which prompts to 
inflict it. The offender necessarily seems then to be the 
proper object of punishment, when we thus entirely sympa¬ 
thize with, and thereby approve of, that sentiment which 
prompts to punish. In this case too, when we approve, and 
go along with, the affection from which the action proceeds, 
we must necessarily approve of the action, and regard the 
person against whom it is directed, as its proper and suita¬ 
ble object. 


Sect. I. 


AND DEMERIT. 


115 


CHAPTER V. 

The analysis of the sense of Merit and Demerit. 

I. AS our sense, therefore, of the propriety of conduct 
arises from what I shall call a direct sympathy with the af¬ 
fections and motives of the person who acts, so our sense of 
its merit arises from what I shall call an indirect sympathy 
with the gratitude of the person who is, if I may say so, ac¬ 
ted upon. 

As we cannot indeed enter thoroughly into the gratitude 
of the person who receives the benefit, unless we beforehand 
approve of the motives of the benefactor, so, upon this ac¬ 
count, the sense of merit seems to be a compounded senti¬ 
ment, and to be made up of two distinct emotions; a direct 
sympathy with the sentiments of the agent, and an indirect 
sympathy with the gratitude of those who receive the bene¬ 
fit of his actions. 

We may, upon many different occasions, plainly distin¬ 
guish those two different emotions combining and uniting 
together in our sense of the good desert of a particular cha¬ 
racter or action. When we read in history concerning ac¬ 
tions of proper and beneficent greatness of mind, how eager¬ 
ly do we enter into such designs? How much are we ani¬ 
mated by that high-spirited generosity which directs them? 
How keen are we for their success ? How grieved at their 
disappointment? In imagination, we become the very per¬ 
son whose actions are represented to us: we transport our¬ 
selves in fancy to the scenes of those distant and forgotten 
adventures, and imagine ourselves acting the part of a Scipio 
or a Camillus, a Timoleon or an Aristides. So far our sen¬ 
timents are founded upon the direct sympathy with the person 
who acts. Nor is the indirect sympathy with those who re¬ 
ceive the benefit of such actions less sensibly felt. When¬ 
ever we place ourselves in the situation of these last, with 

p 2 


116 


0£ MEKltf 


Part II. 


what warm and affectionate fellow-feeling do we enter into 
their gratitude towards those who served them so essenti¬ 
ally? We embrace, as it were, their benefactor along with 
them. Our heart readily sympathizes with the highest trans¬ 
ports of their grateful affection. No honours, no rewards, 
we think, can be too great for them to bestow upon him. 
When they make this proper return for his services, we hear¬ 
tily applaud and go along with them; but are shocked be¬ 
yond all measure, if by their conduct they appear to have 
little sense of the obligations conferred upon them. Our 
whole sense, in short, of the merit and good desert of such 
actions, of the propriety and fitness of recompensing them, 
and making the person who performed them rejoice in his 
turn, arises from the sympathetic emotions of gratitude and 
love, with which, when we bring, home to our own breast 
the situation of those principally concerned, we feel ourselves 
naturally transported towards the man who could act with 
such proper and noble beneficence. 

2. In the same manner, as our sense of the impropriety 
of conduct arises from a want of sympathy, or from a direct 
antipathy to the affections and motives of the agent, so our 
sense of its demerit arises from what I shall here too call, an 
indirect sympathy with the resentment of the sufferer. 

As we cannot indeed enter into the resentment of the suf¬ 
ferer, unless our heart beforehand disapproves the motives of 
the agent, and renounces all fellow-feeling with them; so 
upon this account, the sense of demerit, as well as that of 
merit, seems to be a compounded sentiment, and to be made 
up of two distinct emotions; a direct antipathy to the sen¬ 
timents of the agent, and an indirect sympathy with the re¬ 
sentment of the sufferer. 

We may hear too, upon many different occasions, plainly 
distinguish those two different emotions combining and unit¬ 
ing together in our sense of the ill desert of a particular cha¬ 
racter or action. When we read in history concerning the 
perfidy and cruelty of a Borgia or a Nero, our heart rises up 
against the detestable sentiments which influenced their con- 


Sect. I* 


AND DEMERIT. 


117 


duct, and renounces with horror and abomination all fellow- 
feeling with such execrable motives. So far our sentiments 
are founded upon the direct antipathy to the affections of the 
agent: and the indirect sympathy with the resentment of the 
sufferers is still more sensibly felt. When we bring home to 
ourselves the situation of the persons whom those scourges of 
mankind insulted, murdered, or betrayed, what indignation 
do we not feel against such insolent and inhuman oppressors 
of the earth? Our sympathy with the unavoidable distress of 
the innocent sufferers is not more real nor more lively than 
our fellow-feeling with their just and natural resentment. 
The former sentiment only heightens the latter, and the idea 
of their distress serves only to inflame and blow up our ani¬ 
mosity against those who occasioned it. When we think of 
the anguish of the sufferers, we take part with them more earn¬ 
estly against their oppressors; we enter with more eagerness 
into all their schemes of vengeance, and feel ourselves every 
moment wreaking, in imagination, upon such violators of the 
laws of society, that punishment which our sympathetic indig¬ 
nation tells us is due to their crimes. Our sense of the hor¬ 
ror and dreadful atrocity of such conduct, the delight which 
we take in hearing that it was properly punished, the indig¬ 
nation which we feel when it escapes this due retaliation, our 
whole sense and feeling, in short, of its ill desert, of the pro¬ 
priety and fitness of inflicting evil upon the person who is 
guilty of it, and of making him grieve in his turn, arises from 
the sympathetic indignation which naturally boils up in the 
breast of the spectator, whenever he thoroughly brings home 
to himself the case of the sufferer *. 

* To ascribe in this manner our natural sense of the ill desert of human ac¬ 
tions to a sympathy with the resentment of the sufferer, may seem* to the 
greater part of people, to be a degradation of that sentiment. Resentment 
is commonly regarded as so odious a passion, that they will be apt to think 
it impossible that so laudable a principle, as the sense of the ill desert of vice, 
should in any respect be founded upon it. They will be more willing, per¬ 
haps, to admit that our sense of the merit of good actions is founded upon a 
sympathy with the gratitude of the persons who receive the benefit of them; 
because gratitude, as well as all the other benevolent passions, is regarded as 
an amiable principle, which can take nothing from the worth of whatever is 


118 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


founded upon it. Gratitude and resentment, however, are, in every respect, 
it is evident, counterparts to one another; and if our sense of merit arises from 
a sympathy with the one, our sense of demerit can scarce miss to proceed 
from a fellow-feeling with the other. 

Let it be considered too, that resentment, though, in the degrees in which 
we too often see it, the most odious, perhaps, of all the passions, is not dis¬ 
approved of when properly humbled and entirely brought down to the level 
of the sympathetic indignation of the spectator. When we, who are fhe by¬ 
standers, feel that our own animosity entirely corresponds with that of the 
sufferer, when the resentment of this last does not in any respect go beyond 
our own, when no word, no gesture escapes him that denotes an emotion 
more violent than what we can keep time to, and when he never aims at in¬ 
flicting any punishment beyond what we should rejoice to see inflicted, or 
what we ourselves would upon this account even desire to be the instru¬ 
ments of inflicting, it is impossible that we should not entirely approve of his 
sentiments. Our own emotion in this case must, in our eyes, undoubtedly 
justify his. And as experience teaches us how much the greater part of man¬ 
kind are incapable of this moderation, and how great an effort must be made 
in order to bring down the rude and undisciplined impulse of resentment to 
this suitable temper, we cannot avoid conceiving a considerable degree of 
esteem and admiration for one who appears capable of exerting so much 
self-command over one of the most ungovernable passions of his nature. 
When indeed, the animosity of the sufferer exceeds, as it almost always 
does, what we can go along with, as wc cannot enter into it, we necessarily 
disapprove of it. We even disapprove of it more than we should of an 
equal excess of almost any other passion derived from the imagination. And 
this too violent resentment, instead of carrying us along with it, becomes 
itself the object of our resentment and indignation. We enter into the op¬ 
posite resentment of the person who is the object of this unjust emotion, 
and who is in danger of suffering from it. Revenge, therefore, the excess 
of resentment, appears to be the most detestable of all the passions, and 
is the object of the horror and indignation of every body. And as in the 
way in which this passion commonly discovers itself among mankind, it 
is excessive a hundred times for once that it is moderate, we are very apt 
to consider it as altogether odious and detestable, because in its most or¬ 
dinary appearances it is so. Nature, however, even in the present depraved 
state of mankind, does not seem to have dealt so unkindly with us, as to have 
endowed us with any principle which is wholly, and in every respect evil, or 
which, in no degree and in no direction, can be the proper object of praise 
and approbation. Upon some occasions we are sensible that this passion, 
which is generally too strong, may likewise be too weak. We sometimes 
complain that a particular person shows too little spirit, and has too little 
sense of the injuries that have been done to him; and we are as ready to de¬ 
spise him for the defect, as to hate him for the excess of this passion. 

The inspired writers would not surely have talked so frequently or so 
strongly of the wrath and anger of God, if they had regarded every degree 
of those passions as vicious and evil, even in so weak and imperfect a creature 
as man. 

Let it be considered too, that the present inquiry is not concerning a mat¬ 
ter of right, if I may say so, but concerning a matter of fact. We are not at 
present examining upon what principles a perfect being would approve of 
the punishment of bad actions; but upon what principles so weak and im¬ 
perfect a creature as man actually and in fact approves of it. The principles 
which I have just now mentioned, it is evident, have a very great effect upon 
his sentiments; and it stems wisely ordered, that it should be so. The verv 


Sect. I. 


AND DEMERIT. 


119 


existence of society requires that unmerited and unprovoked malice should 
be restrained by proper punishments; and consequently, that to inflict those 
punishments should be regarded as a proper and laudable action. Though 
man, therefore, be naturally endowed with a desire of the welfare and pre¬ 
servation of society, yet the Author of Nature has not entrusted it to his rea¬ 
son to find out that a certain application of punishments is the proper means 
of attaining this end; but has endowed him with an immediate and instinc¬ 
tive approbation of that very application which is most proper to attain it. 
1 he economy of Nature is, in this respect, exactly of a piece with what it is 
upon many other occasions. With regard to all those ends which, upon ac¬ 
count of their peculiar importance, may be regarded, if such an expression 
js allowable, as the favourite ends of Nature, she has constantly in this manner 
not only endowed mankind with an appetite for the end which she proposes, 
but likewise with an appetite for the means by which alone this end can be’ 
brought about, for their own sakes, and independent of their tendency to pro¬ 
duce it. Thus self-preservation, and the propagation of the species, are the 
great ends which Nature seems to have proposed in the formation of all ani¬ 
mals. Mankind are endowed with a desire of those ends, and an aversion to 
the contrary; with a love of life, and a dread of dissolution; with a desire of 
the continuance and perpetuity of the species, and with an aversion to the 
thoughts of its entire extinction. But though we are in this manner endow¬ 
ed with a very strong desire of those ends, it has not been entrusted to the 
slow and uncertain determinations of our reason, to find out the proper means 
of bringing them about. Nature has directed us to the greater part of these 
by original and immediate instincts. Hunger, thirst, the passion which u- 
nites the two sexes, the love of pleasure and the dread of pain, prompt us to 
apply those means for their own sakes, and without any consideration of their 
tendency to those beneficent ends which the great Director of Nature intend¬ 
ed to produce by them. 

Beiore I conclude this note, I must take notice of a difference between the 
approbation of propriety and that of merit or beneficence. Before we ap¬ 
prove of the sentiments of any person as proper and suitable to their objects, 
we must not only be affected in the same manner as he is, but we must per¬ 
ceive this harmony and correspondence of sentiments between him and our¬ 
selves. Thus, though upon hearing of a misfortune that had befallen my 
friend, I should conceive precisely that degree of concern which he gives way 
to; yet till I am informed of the manner in which he behaves, till I perceive 
the harmony between his emotions and mine, I cannot be said to approve of 
the sentiments which influence his behaviour. The approbation of propriety 
therefore requires, not only that we should entirely sympathize with the per¬ 
son who acts, but that we should perceive this perfect concord between his 
sentiments and our own. On the contrary, when I hear of a benefit that has 
been bestowed upon another person, let him who has received it to be affected 
in what manner he pleases, if, by bringing his case home to myself, I feel gra¬ 
titude arise in my own breast, I necessarily approve of the conduct of his be¬ 
nefactor, and regard it as meritorious, and the proper object of reward. Whe¬ 
ther the person who has received the benefit conceives gratitude or not, can¬ 
not, it is evident, in any degree alter our sentiments with regard to the meric 
of him who has bestowed it. No actual correspondence of sentiments, there¬ 
fore, is here required. It is sufficient that if he was grateful, they would cor¬ 
respond; and our sense of merit is often founded upon one of those illusive 
sympathies, by which, when we bring home to ourselves the case of another, 
we are often affected in a manner in which the person principally concerned 
is incapable of being affected. There is a similar difference between our dis¬ 
approbation of demerit, and that of impropriety. 


Part II* 


120 


OF 51E TUT 


SECTION II. 

OF JUSTICE AND BENEFICENCE. 

CHAPTER I. 

Comparison of those two Virtues . 

ACTIONS of a beneficient tendency, which proceed from 
proper motives, seem alone to require a reward; because such 
alone are the approved object of gratitude, or excite the sym¬ 
pathetic gratitude of the spectator. 

Actions of a hurtful tendency, which proceed from im¬ 
proper motives, seem alone to deserve punishment; because 
such* alone are the approved objects of resentment, or excite 
the sympathetic resentment of the spectator. 

Beneficence is always free, it cannot be extorted by force, 
the mere want of it exposes to no punishment; because the 
mere want of beneficence tends to do no real positive evil. It 
may disappoint of the good which might reasonably have been 
expected, and upon that account, it may justly excite dislike 
and disapprobation: it cannot, however, provoke any resent¬ 
ment which mankind will go along with. The man who does 
not recompence his benefactor, when he has it in his power, 
and when his benefactor needs his assistance, is no doubt, guil¬ 
ty of the blackest ingratitude. The heart of every impartial 
spectator rejects all fellow-feeling with the selfishness of his 
motives, and he is the proper object of the highest disappro¬ 
bation. But still he does no positive hurt to any body. He 
only does not do that good which in propriety he ought to 
have done. He is the object of hatred, a passion which is na¬ 
turally excited by impropriety of sentiment and behaviour; 
not of resentment, a passion which is never properly called 
forth but by actions which tend to do real and positive hurt 


Sect. ir. 


and demerit. 


121 


to some particular persons. His want of gratitude therefore 
cannot be punished. To oblige him by force to perform what 
in gratitude he ought to perform, and what every impartial 
spectator would approve of him for performing, would, if pos¬ 
sible, be still more improper than his neglecting to perform 
it. His benefactor would dishonour himself, if he attempted 
by violence, to constrain him to gratitude, and it would be im¬ 
pertinent for any third person, who was not the superior of 
either, to intermeddle. But of all the duties of beneficence, 
those which gratitude recommends to us approach nearest to 
what is called a perfect and complete obligation. What friend¬ 
ship, what generosity, what charity, would prompt us to do 
with universal approbation, is still more free, and can still less 
be extorted by force than the duties of gratitude. We talk 
of the debt of gratitude, not of charity, or generosity, nor even 
of friendship, when friendship is mere esteem, and has not been 
enhanced and complicated with gratitude for good offices. 

Resentment seems to have been given us by nature for 
defence, and for defence only. It is the safeguard of justice, 
and the security of innocence. It prompts us to beat off the 
mischief which is attempted to be done to us, and to retaliate 
that which is already done; that the offender may be made 
to repent of his injustice, and that others, through fear of the 
like punishment, may be terrified from being guilty of the like 
offence. It must be reserved therefore for these purposes, 
nor can the spectator ever go along with it when it is exerted 
for any other. But the mere want of the beneficent virtues, 
though it may disappoint us of the good which might reason¬ 
ably be expected, neither does, nor attempts to do any mis¬ 
chief from which we can have occasion to defend themselves. 

There is however another virtue, of which the observance 
is not left to the freedom of our own wills, which may be ex¬ 
torted by force, and of which the violation exposes to resent¬ 
ment, and consequently to punishment. This virtue is jus¬ 
tice: the violation of justice is injury: it does real and positive 
hurt to some particular persons, from motives which are na¬ 
turally disapproved of. It is, therefore, the proper object of 


' Q 


122 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


resentment, and of punishment, which is the natural conse¬ 
quence of resentment. As mankind go along with, and ap¬ 
prove of, the violence employed to avenge the hurt which is 
done by injustice, so they much more go along with, and ap¬ 
prove of that which is employed to prevent and beat off the 
injury, and to restrain the offender from hurting his neigh¬ 
bours. The person himself who meditates an injustice is sen¬ 
sible of this, and feels that force may, with the utmost pro¬ 
priety, be made use of, both by the person whom he is about 
to injure, and by, others, either to obstruct the execution of 
his crime, or to punish him when he has executed it. And 
upon this is founded that remarkable distinction between jus¬ 
tice and all the other social virtues, which has of late been 
particularly insisted upon by an author of very great and ori¬ 
ginal genius, that we feel ourselves to be under a stricter ob¬ 
ligation to act according to justice, than agreeably to friend¬ 
ship, charity, or generosity; that the practice of these last 
mentioned virtues, seems to be left in some measure to our 
own choice, but that, somehow or other, we feel ourselves 
to be in a peculiar manner tied, bound, and obliged to the 
observation of justice. We feel, that is to say, that force 
may, with the utmost propriety, and with the approbation of 
all mankind, be made use of to constrain us to observe the 
rules of the one, but not to follow the precepts of the other. 

We must always, however, carefully distinguish what is 
only blamable, or the proper object of disapprobation, from 
what force may be employed either to punish or to prevent. 
That seems blamable which falls short of that ordinary degree 
of proper beneficence, which experience teaches us to expect 
of every body, and on the contrary, that seems praise-worthy 
which goes beyond it. The ordinary degree itself seems 
neither blamable nor praise-worthy. A father, a son, a bro¬ 
ther, who behaves to the correspondent relation neither better 
nor worse than the greater part of men commonly do, seems 
properly to deserve neither praise nor blame. He who sur¬ 
prises us by extraordinary and unexpected, though still proper 
and suitable kindness, or on the contrary by extraordinary and 


Sect. II. 


AND DEMERIT. 


123 


unexpected, as well as suitable unkindness, seems praise-wor¬ 
thy in the one case, and blamable in the other. 

Even the most ordinary degree of kindness or beneficence, 
however, cannot, among equals, be extorted by force. Among 
equals, each individual is naturally, and antecedent to the in¬ 
stitution of civil government, regarded as having a right to 
defend himslf from injuries, and to exact a certain degree of 
punishment for those which have been done to him. Every 
generous spectator not only approves of his conduct when he 
does this, but enters so far into his sentiments as often to be 
willing to assist him. When one man attacks, or robs, or at¬ 
tempts to murder another, all the neighbours take the alarm, 
and think that they do right when they run, either to revenge 
the person who has been injured, or to defend him who is in 
danger of being so. But when a father fails in the ordinary 
degree of parental affection towards a son; when a son seems 
to want that filial reverence which might be expected to his 
father; when brothers are without the usual degree'of brother¬ 
ly affection; when a man shuts his breast against compassion, 
and refuses to relieve the misery of his fellow-creatures, when 
he can with the greatest ease; in all these cases, though every 
body blames the conduct, nobody imagines that those who 
might have reason, perhaps, to expect more kindness, have any 
right to extort it by force. The sufferer can only complain, 
and the spectator can intermeddle no other way than by advice 
and persuasion. Upon all such occasions, for equals to use 
force against one another, would be thought the highest degree 
of insolence and presumption. 

A superior may, indeed, sometimes, with universal appro¬ 
bation, oblige those under his jurisdiction to behave, in this 
respect, with a certain degree of propriety to one another. The 
laws of all civilized nations oblige parents to maintain their 
children, and children to maintain their parents, and impose 
upon men many other duties df beneficence. The civil magis¬ 
trate is entrusted with the power not only of preserving the 
public peace by restraining injustice, but of promoting the pros¬ 
perity of the commonwealth, by establishing good discipline, 

Q. 2 


m 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


and by discouraging every sort of vice and impropriety; he 
may prescribe rules, therefore, which not only prohibit mutual 
injuries among fellow citizens, but command mutual good of¬ 
fices to a certain degree. When the sovereign commands 
what is merely indifferent, and what antecedent to his orders, 
might have been omitted without any blame, it becomes not 
only blainable but punishable to disobey him. When he com¬ 
mands, therefore, what, antecedent to any such order, could 
not have been omitted without the greatest blame, it surely be¬ 
comes much more punishable to be wanting in obedience. Of 
all the duties of a law-giver, however, this, perhaps, is that 
which it requires the greatest delicacy and reserve to execute 
with propriety and judgment. To neglect it altogether ex¬ 
poses the commonwealth to many gross disorders and shock¬ 
ing enormities, and to push it too far is destruction of all li¬ 
berty, security, and justice. 

Though the mere want of beneficence seems to merit no 
punishment from equals, the greater exertions of that virtue 
appear to deserve the highest reward. By being productive 
of the greatest good, they are the natural and approved ob¬ 
jects of the liveliest gratitude. Though the breach of justice, 
on the contrary, exposes to punishment, the observance of the 
rules of that virtue seems scarce to deserve any reward. There 
is, no doubt, a propriety in the practice of justice, and it me¬ 
rits, upon that account, all the approbation which is due to 
propriety. But as it does no real positive good, it is entitled 
to very little gratitude. Mere justice is, upon most occasions, 
but a negative virtue, and only hinders us from hurting our 
neighbour. The man who barely abstains from violating 
either the person, or the estate, or the reputation of his neigh¬ 
bours, has surely very little positive merit. He fulfils, how¬ 
ever, all the rules of what is peculiarly called justice, and does 
every thing which his equals can with propriety force him to 
do, or which they can punish him for not doing. We may 
often fulfil all the rules of justice by sitting still and doino- 
nothing. 

As every man doth, so shall it be done to him, and retalia- 


Sect. II. 


AND DEMERIT. 


125 


tion seems to be the great law which is dictated to us by 
Nature. Beneficence and generosity we think due to the 
generous and beneficent. Those whose hearts never open to 
the feelings of humanity, should we think, be shut out in the 
same manner, from the affections of all their fellow-creatures, 
and be allowed to live in the midst of society, as in a great des¬ 
sert, where there is nobody to care for them, or to enquire 
after them. The violator of the laws of justice ought to be 
made to feel himself that evil, which he has done to another 5 
and since no regard to the sufferings of his brethren is capable 
of restraining him, he ought to be overawed by the fear of his 
own. The man who is barely innocent, who only observes 
the laws of justice with regard to others, and merely abstains 
from hurting his neighbours, can merit only that his neigh¬ 
bours in their turn should respect his innocence, and that the 
same laws should be religiously observed with regard to him. 


CHAPTER II. 

Of the sense of Justice, of Remorse , and of the consciousness 
of Merit, 

THERE can be no proper motive for hurting our neighbour, 
there can be no incitement to do evil to another, which man¬ 
kind will go along with, except just indignation for evil which 
that other has done to us. To disturb his happiness merely be¬ 
cause it stands in the way of our own, to take from him what is 
of real use to him merely because it may be of equal or of more 
use to us, or to indulge, in this manner, at the expence of 
other people, the natural preference which every man has for 
his own happiness above that of other people, is what no im¬ 
partial spectator can go along with. Every man is, no doubt, 
by nature, first and principally recommended to his own care; 
and as he is fitter to take care of himself, than of any other 
person, it is fit and right that it should be so. Every man. 


126 


OF MERIT 


Part IT. 


therefore, is much more deeply interested in whatever imme¬ 
diately concerns himself, than in what concerns any other 
man: and to hear, perhaps, of the death of another person, 
with whom we have no particular connection, will give us less 
concern, will spoil our stomach, or break our rest much less 
than a very insignificant disaster which has befallen ourselves. 
But though the ruin of our neighbour may affect us much less 
than a very small misfortune of our own, we must not ruin 
him to prevent that small misfortune, nor even to prevent our 
own ruin. We must, here, as in all other cases, view ourselves 
not so much according to that light in which we may natu¬ 
rally appear to ourselves, as according to that in which we 
naturally appear to others. Though every man may, accord¬ 
ing to the proverb, be the whole world to himself, to the rest 
of mankind he is a most insignificant part of it. Though 
his own happiness may be of more importance to him than 
that of all the world besides, to every other person it is of no 
more consequence than that of any other man. Though it 
may be true, therefore, that every individual in his own breast, 
naturally prefers himself to all mankind, yet he dares not look 
mankind in the face, and avow that he acts according to this 
principle. He feels that in this preference they can never go 
along with him, and that how natural so ever it may be to 
him, it must always appear excessive and extravagant to them. 
When he views himself in the light in which he is conscious 
that others will view him, he sees that to them he is but one 
of the multitude in no respect better than any other in it. 
If he would act so as that the impartial spectator may enter 
into the principles of his conduct which is what of all things 
he has the greatest desire to do, he must upon this, as upon 
all other occasions, humble the arrogance of his self-love, and 
bring it down to something which other men can go along 
with. They will indulge it so far as to allow him to be more 
anxious about, and to pursue with more earnest assiduity his 
own happiness than that of any other person. Thus far, when¬ 
ever they place themselves in his situation, they will rea¬ 
dily go along with him. In the race for wealth, and honours, 


Sect. II. 


AND DEMERIT. 


127 


and perferments, he may run as hard as he can, and strain 
every nerve and every muscle, in order to outstrip all his.com- 
petitors. But if he should justle, or throw down any of them, 
the indulgence of the spectators is entirely at an end. It is a 
violation of fair play which they cannot admit of. This man 
is to them, in every respect as good as he: they do not enter 
into that self-love by which he prefers himself so much to 
this other, and cannot go along with the motive from which 
he hurt him. They readily, therefore, sympathize with the 
natural resentment of the injured, and the offender becomes 
the object of their hatred and indignation. He is sensible that 
he becomes so, and feels that those sentiments are ready to 
burst out from all sides against him. 

As the greater and more irreparable the evil that is done, 
the resentment of the sufferer runs naturally the higher; so 
does likewise the sympathetic indignation of the spectator, as 
well as the sense of guilt in the agent. Death is the greatest 
evil which one man can inflict upon another, and excites the 
highest degree of resentment in those who are immediately 
connected with the slain. Murder, therefore, is the most a- 
trocious of all crimes, which affect individuals only, in the sight 
both of mankind, and of the person who has committed it. 
To be deprived of that which we are possessed of, is a greater 
evil than to be disappointed of what we have only the ex¬ 
pectation. Breach of property, therefore, theft and robbery, 
which take from us what we are possessed of, are greater 
crimes than breach of contract, which only disappoints us of 
what we expected. The most sacred laws of justice, there¬ 
fore, those whose violation seems to call loudest for vengeance 
and punishment, are the laws which guard the life and per¬ 
son of our neighbour; the next are those which guard his 
property and possessions; and last of all, come those which 
guard what are called his personal rights, or what is due to 
him from the promises of others. 

The violator of the more sacred laws of justice, can never 
reflect on the sentiments which mankind must entertain with 
regard to him, without feeling all the agonies of shame, and 


128 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


horror, and consternation. When his passion is gratified, and 
he begins coolly to reflect on his past conduct, he can enter 
into none of the motives which influenced it. They appear 
now as detestable to him as they did always to other people. 
By sympathizing with the hatred and abhorrence which other 
men must entertain for him, he becomes in some measure, the 
object of his own hatred and abhorrence. The situation of the 
person, who suffered by his injustice, now calls upon his pity. 
He is grieved at the thought of it ; regrets the unhappy ef¬ 
fects of his own conduct, and feels at the same time that they 
have rendered him the proper object of the resentment and 
indignation of mankind, and of what is the natural consequence 
of resentment, vengeance and punishment. The thought of 
this perpetually haunts him, and fills him with terror and a- 
mazement. He dares no longer look society in the face, but 
imagines himself as it were rejected, and thrown out from the 
affections of all mankind. He cannot hope for the consolation 
of sympathy in this his greatest and most dreadful distress. 
The remembrance of his crimes has shut out all fellow-feeling 
with him from the hearts of his fellow-creatures. The senti¬ 
ments which they entertain with regard to him, are the very 
thing which he is most afraid of. Every thing seems hostile, 
and he would be glad to fly to some inhospitable desert, where 
he might never more behold the face of a human creature, 
nor read in the countenance of mankind the condemnation of 
his crimes. But solitude is still more dreadful than society. 
His own thoughts can present him with nothing but what is 
black, unfortunate, and disastrous, the melancholy forebodings 
of incomprehensible misery and ruin. The horror of solitude 
drives him back into society, and he comes again into the pre¬ 
sence of mankind, astonished to appear before them loaded 
with shame and distracted with fear, in order to supplicate 
some little protection from the countenance of those very jud¬ 
ges, who he knows have already all unanimously condemned 
him. Such is the nature of that sentiment, which is properly 
called remorse; of all the sentiments which can enter the hu¬ 
man breast the most dreadful. It is made up of shame from 


Sect. II. 


AND DEMERIT. 


129 


the sense of the impropriety of past conduct ; of grief for the 
effects of it; of pity for those who suffer by it; and of the 
dread and terror of punishment from the consciousness of the 
justly-provoked resentment of all rational creatures. 

The opposite behaviour naturally inspires the opposite sen¬ 
timent. The man who, not from frivolous fancy, but from 
proper motives, has performed a generous action, when he 
looks forward to those whom he has served, feels himself to 
be the natural object of their love and gratitude, and, by sym¬ 
pathy with them, of the esteem and approbation of all man¬ 
kind. And when he looks backward, to the motive from 
which he acted, and surveys it in the light in which the in¬ 
different spectator will survey it, he still continues to enter 
into it, and applauds himself by sympathy with the approba¬ 
tion of this supposed impartial judge. In both these points 
of view, his own conduct appears to him every way agreeable. 
His mind, at the thought of it, is filled with cheerfulness, se¬ 
renity, and composure. He is in friendship and harmony 
with all mankind, and looks upon his fellow-creatures with 
confidence, and benevolent satisfaction, secure that he has 
rendered himself worthy of their most favourable regards. 
In the combination of all these sentiments consists the con¬ 
sciousness of merit, or of deserved reward. 




CHAPTER III. 

Of the utility of this constitution of Nature. 

IT is thus that man, who can subsist only in society, was 
fitted by Nature to that situation for which he was made. All 
the members of human society stand in need of each other’s 
assistance, and are likewise exposed to mutual injuries. 
Where the necessary assistance is reciprocally afforded from 
love, from gratitude, from friendship, and esteem, the society 
flourishes and is happy. All the-different members of it are 

R 


130 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


bound together by the agreeable bands of love and affection, 
and are, as it were, drawn to one common centre of mutual 
good offices. 

But though the necessary assistance should not be afforded 
from such generous and disinterested motives, though among 
the different members of the society there should be no mu¬ 
tual love and affection, the society though less happy and a- 
greeable, will not necessarily be dissolved. Society may sub¬ 
sist among different men, as among different merchants, from 
a sense of its utility, without any mutual love or affection; 
and though no man in it should owe any obligation, or be 
bound in gratitude to any other, it may still be upheld by a 
mercenary exchange of good offices according to an agreed 
valuation. 

Society, however, cannot subsist among those who are at 
all times ready to hurt and injure one another. The mo¬ 
ment that injury begins, the moment that mutual resentment 
and animosity take place, all the bands of it are broke asun¬ 
der, and the different members of which it consisted are, as 
it were, dissipated and scattered abroad by the violence and 
opposition of their discordant affections. If there is any so¬ 
ciety among robbers and murderers, they must at least, ac¬ 
cording to the trite observation, abstain from robbing and 
murdering one another. Beneficence, therefore, is less essen¬ 
tial to the existence of society than justice. Society may sub¬ 
sist, though not in the most comfortable state, without benefi¬ 
cence: but the prevalence of injustice must utterly destroy it. 

Though Nature, therefore, exhorts mankind to acts of 
beneficence, by the pleasing consciousness of deserved reward, 
she has not thought it necessary to guard and enforce the 
practice of it by the terrors of merited punishment in case it 
should be neglected. It is the ornament which embellishes, 
not the foundation which supports the building, and which 
it was, therefore, sufficient to recommend, but by no means 
necessary to impose. Justice, on the contrary, is the main 
pillar that upholds the whole edifice. If it is removed, the 
great, the immense fabric of human society, that fabric which 


Sect. ir. 


AND DEMERIT. 


131 


to raise and support seems in this world, if I may say so, to 
have been the peculiar and darling care of Nature, must in a 
moment crumble into atoms. In order to enforce the obser¬ 
vation of justice, therefore, Nature has implanted in the hu¬ 
man breast that consciousness of ill-desert, those terrors of 
merited punishment which attend upon its violation, as the 
great safeguards of the association of mankind, to protect the 
weak, to curb the violent, and to chastise the guilty. Men, 
though naturally sympathetic, feel so little for another, with 
whom they have no particular connection, in comparison of 
what they feel for themselves; the misery of one, who is mere¬ 
ly their fellow-creature, is of so little importance to them in 
comparison even of a small conveniency of their own; they 
have it so much in their power to hurt him, and may have so 
many temptations to do so, that if this principle did not stand up 
within them in his defence, and overawe them into a respect 
for his innocence, they would, like wild beasts, be at all times 
ready to fly upon him; and a man would enter an assembly 
of men as he enters a den of lions. 

In every part of the universe, we observe means adjusted 
with the nicest artifice, to the ends which they are intended 
to produce, and in the mechanism of a plant, or animal bo¬ 
dy, admire how every thing is contrived for advancing the 
two great purposes of Nature, the support of the individual, 
and the propagation of the species. But in these, and in all 
such objects, we still distinguish the efficient from the final 
cause of their several motions and organizations. The di¬ 
gestion of the food, the circulation of the blood, and. the se¬ 
cretion of the several juices which are drawn from it, are o- 
perations all of them necessary for the great purposes of ani¬ 
mal life. Yet we never endeavour to account for them from 
those purposes as from their efficient causes, nor imagine 
that the blood circulates, or that the food digests of its own 
accord, and with a view or intention to the purposes of cir¬ 
culation or digestion. The wheels of the watch are all admira¬ 
bly adjusted to the end for which it was made, the pointing 
of the hour. All their various motions conspire in the nicest 

R 2 


132 


OF MERU 1 


Part II. 


manner to produce this effect. If they were endowed with 
a desire and intention to produce it, they could not do it bet¬ 
ter. Yet we never ascribe any such desire or intention to 
them, but to the watch-maker, and we know that they are 
put into motion by a spring, which intends the effect it pro¬ 
duces as little as they do. But though, in accounting for 
the operation of bodies, we never fail to distinguish in this 
manner the efficient from the final cause, in accounting for 
those of the mind, we are very apt to confound these two 
different things with one another. When by natural prin¬ 
ciples we are led to advance those ends which a refined and 
enlightened reason would recommend to us, we are very apt 
to impute to that reason, as to their efficient cause, the senti¬ 
ments and actions by which we advance those ends, and to 
imagine that to be the wisdom of man, which in reality is 
the wisdom of God. Upon a superficial view, this cause 
seems sufficient to produce the effects which are ascribed to 
it; and the system of human nature seems to be more simple 
and agreeable, when all its different operations are in this 
manner deduced from a single principle. 

As society cannot subsist unless the laws of justice are to¬ 
lerably observed, as no social intercourse can take place a- 
mong men who do not generally abstain from injuring one 
another; the consideration of this necessity, it has been 
thought, was the ground upon which we approved of the en¬ 
forcement of the laws of justice by the punishment of those 
who violated them. Man, it has been said, has a natural 
love for society, and desires that the union of mankind should 
be preserved for its own sake, and though he himself was to 
derive no benefit from it. The orderly and flourishing state 
of society is agreeable to him, and he takes delight in con¬ 
templating it. Its disorder and confusion, on the contrary, 
is the object of his aversion, and he is chagrined at whatever 
tends to produce it. He is sensible too that his own interest 
is connected with the prosperity of society, and that the hap¬ 
piness, perhaps the preservation of his existence, depends 
upon its preservation. Upon every account, therefore, he 


Sect. II. 


AND DEMERIT. 


JS3 


lias an abhorrence at whatever can tend to destroy society, 
and is willing to make use of every means, which can hinder 
so hated and so dreadful an event. Injustice necessarily 
tends to destroy it. Every appearance of injustice, therefore, 
alarms him, and he runs, if 1 may say so, to stop the progress 
of what, if allowed to go on, would quickly put an end to 
every thing that is dear to him. If he cannot restrain it by 
gentle and fair means, he must bear it down by force and 
violence, and at any rate, must put a stop to its further pro¬ 
gress. Hence it is, they say, that he often approves of the 
enforcement of the laws of justice even by the capital punish¬ 
ment of those who violate them The disturber of the pub¬ 
lic peace is hereby removed out of the world, and others are 
terrified by his fate, from imitating his example. 

Such is the account commonly given of our approbation of 
the punishment of injustice. And so far this account is un¬ 
doubtedly true, that we frequently have occasion to confirm 
our natural sense of the propriety and fitness of punishment, 
by reflecting how necessary it is for preserving the order of 
society. When the guilty is about to suffer that just retalia¬ 
tion, which the natural indignation of mankind tells them is 
due to his crimes; when the insolence of his injustice is broken 
and humbled by the terror of his approaching punishment; 
when he ceases to be an object of fear, with the generous 
and humane, he begins to be an object of pity. The thought 
of what he is about to suffer extinguishes their resentment for 
the sufferings of others to which he has given occasion. They 
are disposed to pardon and forgive him, and to save him, from 
that punishment, which in all their cool hours they had con¬ 
sidered as the retribution due to such crimes. Here, therefore, 
they have occasion to call to their assistance the consideration of 
the general interest of society. They counter-balance the im¬ 
pulse of this weak and partial humanity, by the dictates of a hu¬ 
manity, that is more generous and comprehensive. They re¬ 
flect that mercy to the guilty is cruelty to the innocent, and 
oppose to the emotions of compassion which they feel for a 


134 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


particular person, a more enlarged compassion which they feel 
for mankind. 

Sometimes too, we have occasion to defend the propriety 
Of observing the general rules of justice by the consideration of 
their necessity to the support of society. We frequently hear 
the young and the licentious ridiculating the most sacred rules 
of morality, and professing, sometimes from the corruption, but 
more frequently from the vanity of their hearts, the most a- 
bominable maxims of conduct. Our indignation rouses, and 
we are eager to refute and expose such detestable principles. 
But though it is their intrinsic hatefulness and dctestableness, 
which originally inflames us against them, we are unwilling to 
assign this as the sole reason why we comdemn them, or to 
pretend that it is merely because we ourselves hate and detest 
them. The reason we think, would not appear to be conclu¬ 
sive. Yet why should it not; if we hate and detest them 
because they are the natural and proper objects of hatred 
and detestation? But when we are asked why we should not 
act in such or such a manner, the very question seems to sup¬ 
pose that, to those who ask it, this manner of acting does not 
, appear to be for its own sake the natural and proper object of 
those sentiments. We must show them, therefore, that it 
ought to be so for the sake of something else. Upon this ac¬ 
count, we generally cast about for other arguments, and the 
consideration which first occurs to us, is the disorder and con¬ 
fusion of society which would result from the universal preva¬ 
lence of such practices. We seldom fail, therefore, to insist 
upon this topic. 

But though it commonly requires no great discernment 
to see the destructive tendency of all licencious practices to 
the welfare of society, it is seldom this consideration which first 
animates us against them. All men, even the most stupid and 
unthinking, abhor fraud, perfidy, and injustice, and delight to 
see them punished. But few men have reflected upon the ne¬ 
cessity of justice to the existence of society, how obvious soever 
that necessity may appear to be. 

That it is not a regard to the preservation of society, which 


Sect. II. 


AND DEMERIT* 


1S5 


originally interests us in the punishment of crimes committed 
against individuals, may be demostrated by many obvious con¬ 
siderations. The concern which we take in the fortune and 
happiness of individuals does not, in common cases, arise from 
that which we take in the fortune aud happiness of society. 
We are no more concerned for the destruction or loss of a sin¬ 
gle man, because this man is a member or part of society, and 
because we should be concerned for the destruction of society, 
than we are concerned for the loss of a single guinea, because 
this guinea is a part of a thousand guineas, and because we 
should be concerned for the loss of the whole sum. In nei¬ 
ther case does our regard for the individuals arise from our 
regard to the multitude; but in both cases our regard for the 
multitude is compounded and made up of the particular regards 
which we, feel for the different individuals of which it is com¬ 
posed, As when a small sum is unjustly taken from us, we 
do not so much prosecute the injury from a regard to the pre¬ 
servation of our whole fortune, as from a regard to that parti¬ 
cular sum which we have lost; so when a single man is injured, 
or destroyed, we demand the punishment of the wrong that 
has been done to him, not so much from a concern for the ge¬ 
neral interest of society, as from a concern for that very in¬ 
dividual who has been injured. It is to be observed, however, 
that this concern does not necessarily include it in any degree 
of those exquisite sentiments which are commonly called love, 
esteem, and affection, and by which we distinguish our parti¬ 
cular friends and acquaintance. The concern which is requi¬ 
site for this, is no more than the general fellow-feeling which 
we have with every man, merely because he is our fellow- 
creature. We enter into the resentment even of an odious 
person, when he is injured by those to whom he has given 
no provocation. Our disapprobation of his ordinary character 
and conduct does not in.this case altogether prevent our fellow- 
feeling with his natural indignation; though with those who 
are not either extremely candid, or who have not been accus¬ 
tomed to correct and regulate their natural sentiments by ge¬ 
neral rules, it is very apt to dampt it. 


136 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


tJpoN some occasions, indeed, we both punish and approve 
of punishment, merely from a view to the general interest 
of society, which, we imagine, cannot otherwise be secured. 
Of this kind, are all the punishments inflicted for breaches of 
what is called either civil police, or military discipline. Such 
crimes do not immediately or indirectly hurt any particu¬ 
lar person; but their remote consequences, it is supposed, 
do produce, or might produce, either a considerable inconve- 
niency, or a great disorder in the society. A centinel, for ex¬ 
ample, who falls asleep upon his watch, suffers death by the 
laws of war, because such carelessness might endanger the 
whole army. This severity may, upon many occasions, ap¬ 
pear necessary, and, for that reason just and proper. When 
the preservation of an individual is inconsistent with the safety 
of a multitude, nothing can be more just than that the many 
should be preferred to the one. Yet this punishment, how 
necessary soever, always appears to be excessively severe. 
The natural atrocity of the crime seems to be so little, and the 
punishment so great, that it is with great difficulty that our 
heart can reconcile itself to it. Though such carelessness ap¬ 
pears very blamable, yet the thought of this crime does not 
naturally excite any such resentment, as would prompt us to 
take such dreadful revenge. A man of humanity must recol¬ 
lect himself, must make an effort, and exert his whole firm¬ 
ness and resolution, before he can bring himself either to in¬ 
flict it, or to go along with it when it is inflicted by others. 
It is not, however, in this manner, that he looks upon the just 
punishment of an ungrateful murderer or parricide. His heart, 
in this case, applauds with ardour, and even with transport, 
the just retaliation which seems due to such detestable crimes, 
and which, if, by any accident, they should happen to escape, 
he would be highly enraged and disappointed. The very dif¬ 
ferent sentiments with which the spectator views those dif¬ 
ferent punishments, is a proof that his approbation of the one 
is far from being founded upon the same principles with that 
of the other. He looks upon the centinel as an unfortunate 
victim, who, indeed, must, and ought to be, devoted to the 


Sect. II. 


AND DEMERIT. 


137 


safety of numbers, but whom still, in his heart, he would be 

glad to save*, and he is only sorry that the interest of the 
many should oppose it. But if the murderer should escape 
from punishment, it would excite his highest indignation, and 
he would call upon God to avenge, in another world, that 
crime which the injustice of mankind had neglected to chas¬ 
tise upon earth. 

For it well deserves to be taken notice of, that we are so 
far from imagining that injustice ought to be punished in this 
life, merely on account of the order of society, which cannot 
otherwise be maintained, that Nature teaches us to hope, 
and religion, we suppose, authorises us to expect, that it will 
be punished, even in a life to come. Our sense of its ill de¬ 
sert pursues it, if I may say so, even beyond the grave, though 
the example of its punishment there cannot serve to deter 
the rest of mankind, who see it not, who know it not, from 
being guilty of the like practises Iiere. The justice of God, 
however, we think, still requires, that he should hereafter 
avenge the injuries of the widow and the fatherless, who are 
here so often insulted with impunity. In every religion and 
in every superstition that the world has ever beheld, accord- 
ingly, there has been a Tartarus as well as an Elysium; a place 
provided for the punishment of the wicked, as well as one for 
the reward of the just. 


138 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


SECTION III. 

OF THE INFLUENCE OF FORTUNE UPON TIIE SENTIMENTS 
OF MANKIND, WITH REGARD TO THE MERIT AND 
DEMERIT OF ACTIONS. 

INTRODUCTION. 

WHATEVER praise or blame can be due to any action, 
must belong either, first, to the intention or affection of the 
heart, from which it proceeds; or, secondly, to the external 
action or movement of the body, which this affection gives 
occasion to; or, lastly, to the good or bad consequences, which 
actually, and in fact, proceed from it. These three different 
things constitute the whole nature and circumstances of the 
action, and must be the foundation of whatever quality can 
belong to it. 

That the two last of these three circumstances cannot be 
the foundation of any praise or blame, is abundantly evident; 
nor has the contrary ever been asserted by any body. The 
external action or movement of the body is often the same 
in the most innocent and in the most blamable actions. He 
who shoots a bird, and he who shoots a man, both of them 
perform the same external movement: each of them draws 
the trigger of a gun. The consequences which actually, and 
in fact, happen to proceed from any action, are, if possible, 
still more indifferent either to praise or blame, than even the 
external movement of the body. As they depend not upon 
the agent, but upon fortune, they cannot be the proper foun¬ 
dation for any sentiment, of which his character and conduct 
are the objects. 

The only consequences for which he can be answerable, 
or by which he can deserve either approbation or disapproba¬ 
tion of any kind, are those which were someway or other in- 


Sect. III. 


AND DEMERIT. 


139 


tended, or those which, at least, show some agreeable or dis¬ 
agreeable quality in the intention of the heart, from which 
he acted. To the intention or affection of the heart, there¬ 
fore, to the propriety or impropriety, to the beneficence or 
hurtfulness of the design, all praise or blame, all approbation 
or disapprobation, of any kind, which can justly be bestowed 
upon any action, must ultimately belong. 

When this maxim is thus proposed, in abstract and general 
terms, there is nobody who does not agree to it. Its self- 
evident justice is acknowledged by all the world, and there is 
not a dissenting voice among all mankind. Every body allows, 
that how different soever the accidental, the unintended and 
unforseen consequences of different actions, yet, if the inten¬ 
tions or affections from which they arose were, on the one 
hand, equally proper and equally beneficent, or, on the other, 
equally improper and equally malevolent, the merit or demerit 
of the actions is still the same, and the agent is equally the 
suitable object either of gratitude or of resentment. 

But how well soever we may seem to be persuaded of the 
truth of this equitable maxim, when we consider it after this 
manner, in abstract, yet when we come to particular cases, 
the actual consequences which happen to proceed from any 
action, have a very great effect upon our sentiments concern¬ 
ing its merit or demerit, and almost always either enhance or 
diminish our sense of both. Scarce, in any one instance, per¬ 
haps, will our sentiments be found, after examination, to be 
entirely regulated by this rule, which we all acknowledge 
ought entirely to regulate them. 

This irregularity of sentiment, which every body feels, 
which scarce any body is sufficiently aware of, and which no¬ 
body is willing to acknowledge, I proceed now to explain*, 
and I shall consider, first, the cause which gives occasion to 
it, or the mechanism by which nature produces it; secondly, 
the extent of its influence; and, last of all, the end which it 
answers, or the purpose which the Author of nature seems to 
have intended by it. 

s 2 


no 


OF M2KIT 


Part II. 


CHAPTER I. 

Of the causes of this Influence of Fortune. 

THE causes of pain and pleasure, whatever they are, or how¬ 
ever they operate, seem to be the objects, which in all animals, 
immediately excite those two passions of gratitude and resent¬ 
ment. They are excited by inanimated, is well as by animated 
objects. We are angry, for a moment, even at the stone that 
hurts us. A child beats it, a dog barks at it, a choleric man 
is apt to curse it. The least reflection, indeed, corrects this 
sentiment, and we soon become sensible, that what has no feel¬ 
ing is a very improper object of revenge. When the mischief, 
however, is very great, the object which caused it, becomes 
disagreeable to us ever after, and we take pleasure to burn or 
destroy it. We should treat, in this manner, the instrument 
which had accidentally been the cause of the death of a friend, 
and we should often think ourselves guilty of a sort of inhu¬ 
manity, if we neglected to vent this absurd sort of vengeance 
upon it. 

We conceive, in the same manner, a sort of gratitude for 
those inanimated objects, which have been the causes of great 
or frequent pleasure to us. The sailor, who, as soon as he 
got ashore, should mend his fire with the plank upon which 
he had just escaped from a shipwreck, would seem to be guilty 
of an unnatural action. We should expect that he would 
rather preserve it with care and affection, as a monument that 
was in some measure, dear to him. A man grows fond of a 
snuff-box, of a pen-knife, of a staff which he has long made 
use of, and conceives something like a real love and affection 
for them. If he breaks or loses them, he is vexed out of all 
proportion to the value of the damage. The house which we 
have long lived in, the tree whose vendure and shade we have 
long enjoyed, are both looked upon with a sort of respect 
that seems due to such benefactors. The decay of the one, 


Sect. III. 


AND DEMERIT. 


Hi 


or the ruin of the other, affects us with a kind of melancholy, 
though we should sustain no loss by it. The Dryads and the 
Lares of the ancients, a sort of genii of trees and houses, were 
probably first suggested by this sort of affection, which the 
authors of those superstitions felt for such objects, and which 
seemed unreasonable, if there was nothing animated about 
them. 

But, before any thing can be the proper object of gratitude 
or resentment, it must not only be the cause of pleasure or 
pain, it must likewise be capable of feeling them. Without 
this other quality, those passions cannot vent themselves with 
any sort of satisfaction upon it. As they are excited by the 
causes of pleasure and pain, so their gratification consists in 
retaliating those sensations upon what gave occasion to them 5 
which it is to no purpose to attempt upon what has no sensi¬ 
bility. Animals, therefore, are less improper objects of grati¬ 
tude and resentment than inanimated objects. The dog that 
bites, the ox that gores, are both of them punished. If they 
have been the causes of the death of any person, neither the 
public, nor the relations of the slain, can be satisfied, unless 
they are put to death in their turn; nor is this merely for the 
security of the living, but, in some measure, to revenge the 
injury of the dead. Those animals, on the contrary, that have 
been remarkably serviceable to their masters, become the ob¬ 
jects of a very lively gratitude. We are shocked at the bru¬ 
tality of that officer, mentioned in the Turkish spy, who stabb¬ 
ed the horse that had carried him across an arm of the sea, 
lest that animal should afterwards distinguish some other per¬ 
son by a similar adventure. 

But, though animals are nob only the causes of pleasure 
and pain, but are also capable of feeling those sensations, they 
are still far from being complete and perfect objects either of 
gratitude or resentment; and those passions still feel, that 
there is something wanting to their entire gratification. What 
gratitude chiefly desires, is not only to make ,the benefactor 
feel pleasure in his turn, but to make him conscious that he 
meets with this reward on account of his past conduct, to make 


142 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


him pleased with that conduct, and to satisfy him that the 
person upon whom he bestowed his good offices was not un¬ 
worthy of them. What most of all charms us in our benefac¬ 
tor, is the concord between his sentiments and our own, with 
regard to what interests us so nearly as the worth of our own 
character, and the esteem that is due to us. We are delighted 
to find a person who values us as we value ourselves, and dis¬ 
tinguishes us from the rest of mankind, with an attention not un¬ 
like that with which we distinguish ourselves. To maintain in 
him these agreeable and flattering sentiments, is one of the chief 
ends proposed by the returns we are disposed to make to him. 
A generous mind often disdains the interested thought of ex¬ 
torting new favours from its benefactor, by what may be called 
the importunities of its gratitude. But to preserve and to in¬ 
crease his esteem, is an interest which the greatest mind does 
not think unworthy of its attention. And this is the founda¬ 
tion of what I formerly observed, that when we cannot enter 
into the motives of our benefactor, when his conduct and char¬ 
acter appear unworthy of our approbation, let his services have 
been ever so great, our gratitude is always sensibly diminished. 
We are less flattered by the distinction; and to preserve the 
esteem so weak, or so worthless a patron, seems to be an ob¬ 
ject which does not deserve to be pursued for its own sake. 

The object, on the contrary, which resentment is chiefly 
intent upon, is not so much to make our enemy feel pain in 
his turn, as to make him conscious that he feels it upon ac¬ 
count of his past conduct, to make him repent of that conduct, 
and to make him sensible that the person whom he injured 
did not deserve to be treated in that manner. What chiefly 
enrages us against the man who injures or insults us, is the lit¬ 
tle account which he seems to make of us, the unreasonable 
preference which he gives to himself above us, and that ab- 
surb self-love, by which he seems to imagine, that other peo¬ 
ple may be sacrificed at any time, to his conveniency or his 
humour. The glaring impropriety of this conduct, the gross 
insolence and injustice which it seems to involve in it, often 
shock and exasperate us more than all the mischief which we 


Sect. IIL 


AND DEMERIT. 


143 


have suffered. To bring him back to a more just sense of 
what is due to other people, to make him sensible of what he 
owes us, and of the wrong that he has done to us, is frequently 
the principal end proposed in our revenge, which is always 
imperfect when it cannot accomplish this. When our enemy 
appears to have done us no injury, when we are sensible that 
he acted quite properly, that, in his situation, we should have 
done the same thing, and that we deserved from him all the 
mischief we met with; in that case, if we have the least spark 
either of candour or justice, we can entertain no sort of re¬ 
sentment. 

Before any thing, therefore, can be the complete and pro¬ 
per object, either of gratitude or resentment, it must possess 
three different qualifications. First, it must be the cause of 
pleasure in the one case, and of pain in the other. Secondly, 
it must be capable of feeling those sensations. And, thirdly, 
it must not only have produced those sensations, but it must 
have produced them from design, and from a design that is 
approved of in the one case, and disapproved of in the other. 
It is by the first qualification that any object is capable of ex¬ 
citing those passions: it is by the second, that it is in any re¬ 
spect capable of gratifying them: the third qualification is not 
only necessary for their complete satisfaction, but as it gives 
a pleasure or pain that is both exquisite and peculiar, it is like¬ 
wise an additional exciting cause of those passions. 

As what gives pleasure or pain, therefore, either in one 
way or another, is the sole exciting cause of gratitude and re¬ 
sentment ; though the intentions of any person should be ever 
so proper and beneficent, on the one hand, or ever so impro¬ 
per and malevolent on the other; yet, if he has failed in pro¬ 
ducing either the good or the evil which he intended, as one 
of the exciting causes is wanting in both cases, less gratitude 
seems due to him in the one, and less resentment in the other. 
And, on the contrary, though in the intentions of any person, 
there was either no laudable degree of benevolence on the one 
hand, or no blameable degree of malice on the other; yet, if 
his actions should produce either great good or great evil, as 


144 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


one of the exciting causes takes place upon both these occa¬ 
sions, some gratitude is apt to arise towards him in the one, 
and some resentment in the other. A shadow of merit seems 
to fall upon him in the first, a shadow of demerit in the se¬ 
cond. And, as the consequences of actions are altogether 
under the empire of Fortune, hence arises her influence upon 
the sentiments of mankind with regard to merit and demerit. 


CHAPTER II. 

Of the extent of this influence of Fortune . 

THE effect of this influence of fortune is, first, to diminish 
our sense of the merit or demerit of those actions which arose 
from the most laudable or blamable intentions, when they fail 
of producing their proposed effects: and, secondly, to increase 
our sense of the merit or demerit of actions, beyond what is 
due to the motives or affections from which they proceed, 
when they accidentally give occasion either to extraordinary 
pleasure or pain. 

1. First, I say, though the intentions of any person should 
be ever so proper and beneficent, on the one hand, or ever so 
improper and malevolent, on the other, yet if they fail in pro¬ 
ducing their effects, his merit seems imperfect in the one case, 
and his demerit incomplete in the other. Nor is this irregu¬ 
larity of sentiment felt only by those who are immediately af¬ 
fected by the consequences of any action. It is felt, in some 
measure, even by the impartial spectator. The man who so¬ 
licits an office for another, without obtaining it, is regarded 
as his friend, and seems to deserve his love and affection. 
But the man who not only solicits, but procures it, is more 
peculiarly considered as his patron and benefactor, and is entit¬ 
led to his respect and gratitude. The person obliged, we are apt 
to think, may, with some justice, imagine himself on a level with 
the first: but we cannot enter into his sentiments, if he does not 


Sect. III. 


AND DEMERIT. 


145 


feel himself inferior to the second. It is common indeed to 
say, that we are equally obliged to the man who has endea¬ 
voured to serve us, as to him who actually did so. It is the 
speech which we constantly make upon every unsuccessful at¬ 
tempt of this kind; but which, like all other fine speeches, 
must be understood with a grain of allowance. The senti¬ 
ments which a man of generosity entertains for the friend who 
fails, may often indeed be nearly the same with those which 
he conceives for him who succeeds: and the more generous he 
is, the more nearly will those sentiments approach to an exact 
level. With the truly generous, to be beloved, to be esteem¬ 
ed by those whom they themselves think worthy of esteem, 
gives more pleasure, and thereby excites more gratitude, than 
all the advantages which they can ever expect from those sen¬ 
timents. When they lose those advantages, therefore, they 
seem to lose but a trifle, which is scarce worth regarding. They 
still however lose something. Their pleasure therefore, and 
consequently their gratitude, is not perfectly complete: and 
accordingly if, between the friend who fails and the friend who 
succeeds, all other circumstances are equal, there will, even in 
the noblest and the best mind, be some little difference of af¬ 
fection in favour of him who succeeds. Nay, so unjust are 
mankind in this respect, that though the intended benefit 
should be procured, yet if it is not procured, by the means of 
a particular benefactor, they are apt to think that less gratitude 
is due to the man, who with the best intentions in the world 
could do no more than help it a little forward. As their gra¬ 
titude is in this case divided among the different persons who 
contributed to their pleasure, a smaller share of it seems due 
to any one. Such a person, we hear men commonly say, in¬ 
tended no doubt to serve us; and we really believe exerted 
himself to the utmost of his abilities for that purpose. We 
are not, however, obliged to him for this benefit; since, had 
it not been for the concurrence of others, all that he could 
have done would never have brought it about. This consider¬ 
ation, they imagine, should, even in the eyes of the impartial 
spectator, diminish the debt which they owe to him. The 


146 


t)E MERIT 


Part II. 


person himself who has unsuccessfully endeavoured to confer 
a benefit, has by no means the same dependency upon the gra¬ 
titude of the man whom he meant to oblige, nor the same 
sense of his own merit towards him, which he would have had 
in the case of success. 

Even the merit of talents and abilities which some accident 
has hindered from producing their effects, seems in some mea¬ 
sure imperfect, even to those who are fully convinced of their 
capacity to produce them. The general who has been hindered 
by the envy of ministers from gaining some great advantage 
over the enemies of his country, regrets the loss of the oppor¬ 
tunity for ever after. Nor is it only upon account of the pub¬ 
lic that he regrets it. He laments that he was hindered from 
performing an action which would have added a new lustre to 
his character in his own eyes, as well as in those of every other 
person. It satisfies neither himself nor others to reflect that 
the plan or design was all that depended on him, that no great¬ 
er capacity was required to execute it than what was necessary 
to concert it: that he was allowed to be every way capable of 
executing it, and that, had he been permitted to go on, suc¬ 
cess was infallible. He still did not execute it! and though 
he might deserve all the approbation which is due to a mag¬ 
nanimous and great design, he still wanted the actual merit 
of having performed a great action. To take the manage¬ 
ment of any affair of public concern from the man who has 
almost brought it to a conclusion, is regarded as the most in¬ 
vidious injustice. As he had done so much, he should, we 
think, have been allowed to acquire the complete merit of 
putting an end to it. It was objected to Pompey, that he 
came in upon the victories of Lucuilus, and gathered those 
laurels which were due to the fortune and valour of another. 
The glory of Lucuilus, it seems, was less complete even in the 
opinion of his own friends, when he was not permitted to finish 
that conquest which his conduct and courage had put in the 
power of almost any man to finish. It mortifies an architect 
when his plans are either not executed at all, or when they 
are so far altered as to spoil the effect of the building. The 


Sect. III. 


AND DEMERIT. 


147 ' 


plan, however, is all that depends- upon the architect. The 
whole of his genius is, to good judges, as completely discov¬ 
ered in that as in the actual execution. But a. plan does not, 
even to the most intelligent, give the same pleasure as a no¬ 
ble and magnificent building. They may discover as much 
both of taste and genius in the one as in the other. But their 
effects are still vastly different, and the amusement derived 
from the first, never approaches to the wonder and admiration 
which are sometimes excited by the second. We may believe 
of many men, that their talents are superior to those of Caesar 
and Alexander; and that in the same situations they would 
perform still greater actions. In the mean time, however, 
we do not behold them with that astonishment and admira¬ 
tion with which those two heroes have been regarded in all 
ages and nations. The calm judgments of the mind may ap¬ 
prove of them more, but they want the splendor of great ac¬ 
tions to dazzle and transport it. The superiority of virtues and 
talents has not, even upon those who acknowledge that supe¬ 
riority, the same effect with the superiority of atchievements. 

As the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to do good seems 
thus, in the eyes of ungrateful mankind, to be diminished by 
the miscarriage, so does likewise the demerit of an unsuccess¬ 
ful attempt to do evil. The design to commit a crime, how 
clearly soever it may be proved, is scarce ever punished with 
the same severity as the actual commission of it. The case 
of treason is perhaps the only exception. That crime imme¬ 
diately affecting the being of the government itself, the go¬ 
vernment is naturally more jealous of it than of any other. 
In the punishment of treason, the sovereign resents the 
injuries which are immediately done to himself: in the pun¬ 
ishment of other crimes, he resents those which are done 
to other men. It is his own resentment which he indulges 
in the one case: it is that of his subjects which by sympa¬ 
thy he enters into the other. In the first case, therefore, as 
he judges in his own cause, he is very apt to be more vio¬ 
lent and sanguinary, in his punishments than the impartial 
spectator can approve of. His resentment too, rises here upon 

T 2 


148 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


smaller occasions, and docs not always, as in other cases, wait 
for the perpetration of the crime, or even for the attempt to 
commit it. A treasonable concert, though nothing has been 
done, or even attempted in consequence of it, nay, a treasona¬ 
ble conversation, is in many countries punished in the same 
nianner, as the actual commission of treason. With regard 
to all other crimes, the mere design, upon which no attempt 
has followed, is seldom punished at all, and is never punished 
severely. A criminal design, and a criminal action, it may 
be said, indeed, do not necessarily suppose the same degree 
of depravity, and, ought not therefore to be subjected to the 
same punishment. We are capable, it may be said, of resolv¬ 
ing, and even of taking measures to execute, many things, 
which, when it comes to the point, we feel ourselves altogether 
incapable of executing. But this reason can have no place 
when the design has been carried the length of the last at¬ 
tempt. The man, however, who fires a pistol at his enemy, 
but misses him, is punished with death by the laws of scarce 
any country. By the old law of Scotland, though he should 
wound him, yet, unless death ensues within a certain time, the 
assassin is not liable to the last punishment. The resentment 
of mankind, however, runs so high against this crime, their 
terror for the man who shows himself capable of committing 
it, is so great, that the mere attempt to commit it ought in 
all countries to be capital. The attempt to commit smaller 
crimes is almost always punished very lightly, and sometimes 
is not punished at all. The thief, whose hand has been caught 
in his neighbour’s pocket before he had taken any thing out 
of it, is punished with ignominy only. If he had got time 
to take away an hankerchief, he would have been put to death. 
The house-breaker, who has been found setting a ladder to 
his neighbour’s window, but had not got into it, is not ex¬ 
posed to the capital punishment. The attempt to ravish is 
not punished as a rape. The attempt to seduce a married 
woman is not punished at all, though seduction is punished 
severely. Our resentment against the person who only at¬ 
tempted to do a mischief, is seldom so strong as to bear us out 


Sect. III. 


AND DEMERIT. 


149 


in inflicting the same punishment upon him, which we should 
have thought due if he had actually done it. In the one case 
the joy of our deliverance alleviates our sense of the atrocity 
of his conduct; in the other, the grief of our misfortune in¬ 
creases it. His real demerit, however, is undoubtedly the 
same in both cases, since his intentions were equally criminal; 
and there is in this respect, therefore, an irregularity in the 
sentiments of all men, and a consequent relaxation of disci¬ 
pline, in the laws of, I believe, all nations, of the most civil¬ 
ized, as well as of the most barbarous. The humanity of a 
civilized people disposes them either to dispense with, or to 
mitigate punishments wherever their natural indignation is 
not goaded on by the consequences of the crime. Barbarians, 
on the other hand, when no actual consequence has happened 
from any action, are not apt to be very delicate or inquisitive 
about the motives. 

The person, himself, who either from passion, or from the 
influence of bad company, has resolved, and perhaps taken 
measures to perpetrate some crime, but who has fortunately 
been prevented by an accident, which put it out of his power, 
is sure, if he has any remains of conscience, to regard this e- 
vent all his life after as a great and signal deliverance. He 
can never think of it without returning thanks to Heaven for 
having been thus graciously pleased to save him from the guilt 
in which he was just ready to plunge himself, and to hinder 
him from rendering all the rest of his life a scene of horror, 
remorse, and repentance. But though his hands are innocent, 
he is conscious that his heart is equally guilty as if he had ac¬ 
tually executed what he was so fully resolved upon. It gives 
great ease to his conscience, however, to consider, that the 
crime was not executed, though he knows that the failure a- 
rose from no virtue in him. He still considers himself as less 
deserving of punishment and resentment; and this good for¬ 
tune either diminishes, or takes away altogether, all sense of 
guilt. To remember how much he was resolved upon it, has 
no other effect than to make him regard his escape as the 
greater and more miraculous: for he still fancies that he has 


150 


OP MERIT 


Part II. 


escaped, and he looks back upon the danger to which his 
peace of mind was exposed, with that terror, with which one 
who is in safety may sometimes remember the hazard he was 
of falling over a precipice, and shudder with horror at the 
thought. 

2. The second effect of this influence of fortune, is to in¬ 
crease our sense of the merit or demerit of actions beyond 
what is due to the motives or affection from which they pro¬ 
ceed, when they happen to give occasion to extraordinary 
pleasure or pain. The agreeable or disagreeable effects of the 
action often throw a shadow of merit or demerit upon the a- 
gent, though in his intention there was nothing that deserved 
either praise or blame, or at least that deserved them in the 
degree in which we are apt to bestow them. Thus, even the 
messenger of bad news is disagreeable to us, and, on the con¬ 
trary, we feel a sort of gratitude for the man who brings us 
good tidings. For a moment we look upon them both as the 
authors, the one of our good, the other of our bad fortune, 
and regard them in some measure as if they had leally brought 
about the events which they only give an account of. The 
first author of our joy is naturally the object of a transitory 
gratitude: we embrace him with warmth and affection, and 
should be glad, during the instant of our prosperity, to reward 
him as for some signal service. By the custom of all courts, 
the officer, who brings the news of a victory, is entitled to 
considerable preferments, and the general always chuses one 
of his principal favourites to go upon so agreeable an errand. 
The first author of our sorrow is, on the contrary, just as na¬ 
turally the object of a transitory resentment. We can scarce 
avoid looking upon him with chagrin and uneasiness: and the 
rude and brutal are apt to vent upon him that spleen which 
his intelligence gives occasion to. Tigranes, king of Arme¬ 
nia, struck off the head of the man who brought him the first 
account of the approach of a formidable enemy. To punish 
in this manner the author of bad tidings, seems barbarous and 
inhuman: yet to reward the messenger of good news, is not 
disagreeable to us \ we think it suitable to the bounty of kings. 


Sect. III. 


AND DEMERIT. 


151 


But why do we make this difference, since, if there is no fault 
in the one, neither is there any merit in the other? It is be¬ 
cause any sort of reason seems sufficient to authorize the ex¬ 
ertion of the social and benevolent affections; but it requires 
the most solid and substantial to make us enter into that of 
the unsocial and malevolent. 

But though in general we are averse to enter into the unso¬ 
cial and malevolent affections, though we lay it down for a rule 
that we ought never to approve of their gratification, unless so 
far as the malicious and unjust intention of the person, against 
whom they are directed, renders him their proper object; yet, 
upon some occasions, we relax of this severity. When the 
negligence of one man has occasioned some unintended damage 
to another, we generally enter so far into the resentment of 
the sufferer, as to approve of his inflicting a punishment upon 
the offender much beyond what the offence would have ap¬ 
peared to deserve, had no such unlucky consequence followed 
from it. 

There is a degree of negligence, which would appear to 
deserve some chastisement though it should occasion no damage 
to any body. Thus, if a person should throw a large stone 
over a wall into a public street without giving warning to 
those who might be passing by, and without regarding where 
it was likely to fall, he would undoutedly deserve some chas¬ 
tisement. A very accurate police would punish so absurd an 
action, even though it had done no mischief. The person 
who has been guilty of it, shows an insolent contempt of the 
happiness and safety of others. There is real injustice in his 
conduct. He wantonly exposes his neighbour to what no man 
in his senses would chuse to expose himself, and evidently 
wants that sense of what is due to his fellow*creatures which 
is the basis of justice and of society. Gross negligence there¬ 
fore is, in the law, said to be almost equal to malicious de¬ 
sign*. When any unlucky consequences happen from such 
carelessness, the person who has been guily of it is often pun- 


Lata culpa prope dolum est. 


152 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


ished as if he had really intended those consequences; and his 
conduct, which was only thoughtless and insolent, and what 
deserved some chastisement, is considered as atrocious, and as 
liable to the severest punishment. Thus if, by the imprudent 
action above mentioned, he should accidentally kill a man, he 
is, by the laws of many countries, particularly by the old law 
of Scotland, liable to the last punishment. And though this is, 
no doubt, excessively severe, it is not altogether inconsistent 
with our natural sentiments. Our just indignation against the 
folly and inhumanity of his conduct is exasperated by our sym¬ 
pathy with the unfortunate sufferer. Nothing, however, 
would appear more shocking to our natural sense of equity, 
than to bring a man to the scaffold merely for having thrown a 
stone carelessly into the street without hurting any body. The 
folly and inhumanity of his conduct, however, would in this case 
be the same; but still our sentiments would be very different. 
The consideration of this difference may satisfy us how much 
the indignation even of the spectator, is apt to be animated by 
the actual consequences of the action. In cases of this kind 
there will, if I am not mistaken, be found a great degree of 
severity in the laws of almost all nations; as I have already 
observed, that in those of an opposite kind, there was a very 
general relaxation of discipline. 

There is another degree of negligence which does not in¬ 
volve in it any sort of injustice. The person who is guilty of 
it treats his neighbour as he treats himself, means no harm to 
any body, and is far from entertaining any insolent contempt 
for the safety and happiness of others. He is not, however, 
so careful and circumspect in his conduct as he ought to be, 
and deserves upon this account some degree of blame and cen¬ 
sure, but no sort of punishment. Yet if, by a negligence* 
of this kind, he should occasion some damage to another per¬ 
son, he is by the laws of, I believe, all countries, obliged to 
compensate it. And though this is, no doubt, a real punish¬ 
ment, and what no mortal would have thought of inflicting 


Culpa levis. 


Sect. III. 


AND DEMERIT. 


15S 


upon him, had it not been for the unlucky accident which his 
conduct gave occasion to; yet this decision of the law is ap¬ 
proved of by the natural sentiments of all mankind. Nothing? 
we think, can be more just than that one man should not suf¬ 
fer by the carelessness of another; and that the damage occa¬ 
sioned by blameable negligence, should be made up by the 
person who was guilty of it. 

There is another species of negligence*, which consists 
merely in a want of the most anxious timidity and circbmspec- 
tion, with regard to all the possible consequences of our ac¬ 
tions. The want of this painful attention, when no bad conse¬ 
quences follow from it, is so far from being regarded as blame- 
able, that the contrary quality is rather considered as such. 
That timid circumspection which is afraid of every thing, is 
never regarded as a virtue, but as a quality which more than 
any other incapacitates for action and business. Yet when, 
from a want of this excessive care, a person happens to occa¬ 
sion some damage to another, he is often by the law obliged 
to compensate it. Thus, by the Aquilian law, the man, who 
not being able to manage a horse that had accidentally taken 
fright, should happen to ride down his neighbour’s slave, is, 
obliged to compensate the damage. When an accident of this 
kind happens, we are apt to think that he ought not to have 
rode such a horse, and to regard his attempting it as an un¬ 
pardonable levity; though without this accident we should 
not only have made no such reflection, but should have regard¬ 
ed his refusing it as the effect of timid weakness, and of an 
anxiety about merely possible events, which it is to no pur¬ 
pose to be aware of. The person himself, who by an accident 
even of this kind has involuntarily hurt another, seems to have 
some sense of his own ill desert, with regard to him. He 
naturally runs up to the sufferer to express his concern for 
what has happened, and to make every acknowledgment in 
his power. If he has any sensibility, he necessarily desires 
to compensate the damage, and to do every thing he can to 

* Cu*pa levissima. 

U 


OF MERIT. 


Part II. 


15i 

appease that animal resentment, which he is sensible will be 
apt to arise in the breast of the sufferer. To make no apolo¬ 
gy, to . offer no atonement, is regarded as the highest brutality. 
Yet why should he make an apology more than any other per¬ 
son? Why should he, since he was equally innocent, with 
any other by-stander, be thus singled out from among all 
mankind, to make up for the bad fortune for another? This 
task would surely never be imposed upon him, did not even 
the impartial spectator feel some indulgence for what may be 
regarded as the unjust resentment of that other. 


CHAPTER III. 

Of the final cause of this Irregularity of Sentiments. 

SUCH is the effect of the good or bad consequence of ac¬ 
tions upon the sentiments both of the person who performs 
them, and of others; and thus, Fortune, which governs the 
world, has some influence where we should be least willing 
to allow her any, and directs in some measure the sentiments 
of mankind, with regard to the character and conduct both of 
themselves and others. That the world judges by the event, 
and not by the design, has been in all ages the complaint, and 
is the great discouragement of virtue. Every body agrees 
to the general maxim, that as the event does not depend on 
the agent, it ought to have no influence upon our sentiments 
with regard to the merit or propriety of his conduct. But 
when we come to particulars, we find that our sentiments are 
scarce in any one instance exactly conformable to what this 
equitable maxim would direct. The happy or unprosperous 
event of any action, is not only apt to give us a good or bad 
opinion of the prudence with which it was conducted, but al¬ 
most always too, animates our gratitude or resentment, our 
sense of the merit or demerit of the design. 

Nature, however, when she implanted the seeds of this 


Sect. III. 


AND DEMERIT. 


155 


irregularity in the human breast, seems, as upon all other oc¬ 
casions, to have intended the happiness and perfection of the 
species. If the hurtfulness of the design, if the malevolence 
of the affection, were alone the causes which excited our re¬ 
sentment, we should feel all the furies of that passion against 
any person in whose breast we suspected or believed such de¬ 
signs or affection were harboured, though they had never 
broke out into any actions. Sentiments, thoughts, intentions, 
would become the objects of punishment ; and if the indigna¬ 
tion of mankind run as high against them as against actions; 
if the baseness of the thought which had given birth to no 
action, seemed in the eyes of the world as much to call aloud 
for vengeance as the baseness of an action, every court of ju¬ 
dicature would become a real inquisition. There would be no 
safety for the most innocent and circumspect conduct. Bad 
wishes, had views, bad designs, might still be suspected; and 
while these excited the same indignation with bad conduct, 
while bad intentions were as much resented as bad actions, 
they would equally expose the person to punishment and re¬ 
sentment. Actions, therefore, which either produce actual 
evil, or attempt to produce it, and thereby put us in the im¬ 
mediate fear of it, are by the Author of nature rendered the 
only proper and approved objects of human punishment and 
and resentment. Sentiments, designs, affections, though it 
is from these that according to cool reason human actions de¬ 
rive their whole merit or demerit, are placed by the great 
Judge of hearts beyond the limits of every human jurisdiction, 
and are reserved for the cognizance of his own unerring tri¬ 
bunal. That necessary rule of justice, therefore, that men in 
this life are liable to punishment for their actions only, not 
for their designs and intentions, is founded upon this salutary 
and useful irregularity in human sentiments concerning merit 
or demerit, which at first sight appears so absurd and unac¬ 
countable. But every part of nature, when attentively sur 
veved, equally demonstrates the providential care of its Au¬ 
thor; and we may admire the wisdom and goodness of God 
even in the weakness and folly of men. 


u 


o 


153 


OF METUT 


Part I!. 


No«. is that irregularity of sentiments altogether without 
its utility, by which the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to 
serve, and much more that of mere good inclinations and kind 
wishes, appears to be imperfect. Man was made for action, 
and to promote by the exertion of his faculties such changes 
in the external circumstances both of himself and others, as 
may seem most favourable to the happiness of all. He must 
not be satisfied with indolent benevolence, nor fancy himself 
the friend of mankind, because in his heart he wishes well to 
the prosperity of the world. That he may call forth the whole 
vigour of his soul, and strain every nerve, in order to produce 
those ends which it is the purpose of his being to advance, 
Nature has taught him, that neither himself nor mankind can 
be fully satisfied with his conduct, nor bestow upon it the full 
measure of applause, unless he has actually produced them, 
lie is made to know, that the praise of good intentions, with¬ 
out the merit of good offices, will be but of little avail to ex¬ 
cite either the loudest acclamations of the world, or even the 
highest degree of self-applause. The man who has performed 
no single act of importance, but whose whole conversation and 
deportment express the justest, the noblest, and most generous 
sentiments, can be entitled to demand no very high reward, 
even though his inutility should be owing to nothing but the 
want of an opportunity to serve. We can still refuse it him 
without blame. We can still ask him, What have you done? 
What actual service can you produce, to entitle you to so great 
a recompence? We esteem you and love you 5 but we owe 
you nothing. To reward indeed that latent virtue which 
has been useless only for want of an opportunity to serve, to 
bestow upon it those honours and preferments, which, though 
in some measure it may be said to deserve them, it could not 
with propriety have insisted upon, is the effect of the most 
divine benevolence. To punish, on the contrary, for the af¬ 
fections of the heart only, where no crime has been committed, 
is the most insolent and barbarous tyranny. The benevolent 
affections seem to deserve most praise, when they do not wait 
till it becomes almost a crime for them not to exert themselves. 


Sect. III. 


AND DEMERIT. 


157 


The malevolent, on the contrary, can scarce be too tardy, too 
slow, or deliberate. 

It is even of considerable importance, that the evil which 
is done without design, should be regarded as a misfortune to 
the doer, as well as to the sufferer. Man is thereby taught to 
reverence the happiness of his brethren, to tremble lest he 
should, even unknowingly, do any thing that can hurt them, 
and to dread that animal resentment which, he feels, is ready 
to burst out against him, if he should, without design, be the 
unhappy instrument of their calamity. As, in the ancient 
heathen religion, that holy ground which had been consecrated 
to some god, was not to be trod upon but upon solemn and 
necessary occasions, and the man who had even ignorantly 
violated it, became piacular from that moment, and, until pro¬ 
per atonement should be made, incurred the vengeance of that 
powerful and invisible being to whom it had been set apart; 
so, by the wisdom of Nature, the happiness of every innocent 
man is in the same manner, rendered holy, consecrated, and 
hedged round against the approach of every other man; not 
to be wantonly trod upon, not even to be, in any respect, ig¬ 
norantly and involuntarily violated, without requiring some 
expiation, some atonement in proportion to the greatness of 
such undesigned violation. A man of humanity, who acci¬ 
dentally, and without the smallest degree of blameable negli¬ 
gence, has been the cause of the death of another man, feels 
himself piacular, though not guilty. During his whole life 
he considers this accident as one of the greatest misfortunes 
that could have befallen him. If the family of the slain is 
poor, and he himself in tolerable circumstances, he immedi¬ 
ately takes them under his protection, and, without any other 
merit, thinks them entitled to every degree of favour and 
kindness. If they are in better circumstances, he endeavours 
by every submission, by every expression of sorrow, by render¬ 
ing them every good office which he can devise or they accept 
of, to atone for what has happened, and to propitiate, as much 
as possible, their, perhaps natural, though no doubt, most 


158 


OF MERIT 


Part II. 


unjust resentment for the great, though involuntarily, offence 
which he has given them. 

The distress which an innocent person feels, who, by some 
accident, has been led to do something which, if it had been 
done with knowledge and design, would have justly exposed 
him to the deepest reproach, has given occasion to some of 
the finest and most interesting scenes both of the ancient and 
of the modern drama. It is this fallacious sense of guilt, if I 
may call it so, which constitutes the whole distress of CEdipus 
and Jocasta upon the Greek, of Monimia and Isabella upon 
the English theatre. They are all of them in the highest de¬ 
gree piacular, though not one of them is in the smallest de¬ 
gree guilty. 

Notwithstanding, however, all these seeming irregula¬ 
rities of sentiment, if man should unfortunately either give 
occasion to those evils which he did not intend, or fail in pro¬ 
ducing that good which he intended. Nature has not left his 
innocence altogether without consolation, nor his virtue alto¬ 
gether without reward. He then calls to his assistance that 
just and equitable maxim, That those events which did not 
depend upon our conduct, ought not to diminish the esteem 
that is due to us. He summons up his whole magnanimity and 
firmness of soul, and strives to regard himself, not in the light 
in which he at present appears, but in that in which he ought 
to appear, in which he would have appeared had his generous 
designs been crowned with success, and in which he would 
still appear, notwithstanding their miscarriage, if the senti¬ 
ments of mankind were either altogether candid and equitable* 
or even perfectly consistent with themselves. The more 
candid and humane part of mankind entirely go along with 
the efforts which he thus makes to support himself in his own 
opinion. They exert their whole generosity and greatness of 
mind, to correct in themselves this irregularity of human na¬ 
ture, and endeavour to regard his unfortunate magnanimity 
in the same light in which, had it been successful, they would, 
without any such generous exertion, have naturally been dis¬ 
posed to consider it. 


THE 


THEORY 

O F 

MORAL SEJVTIMEJVTS. 


PART III 

Of the Foundation of our Judgments concern¬ 
ing our own Sentiments and Conduct, 
and of the Sense of Duty. 

CHAPTER I. 

Of the Principle of Self-approbation and of Self-disappro* 
bat ion. 

In the two forgoing parts of this discourse, I have chiefly 
considering the origin and foundation of our judgments con¬ 
cerning the sentiments and conduct of others. I come now 
to consider more particularly, the origin of those concerning 
our own. 

The principle by which we naturally either approve or dis¬ 
approve of our own conduct, seems to be altogether the same 
with that by which we exercise the like judgments concern¬ 
ing the conduct of other people. We either approve or dis¬ 
approve of the conduct of another man, according as we feel 




160 


OF TIIE SENSE 


Part III. 


that, when w'e bring his case home to ourselves, we either can 
or cannot entirely sympathize with the sentiments and mo¬ 
tives which directed it. And, in the same manner, we either 
approve or disapprove of our own conduct, according as we 
feel that, when we place ourselves in the situation of another 
man, and view it, at it were, with his eyes, and from his 
station, we either can or cannot entirely enter into, and sym¬ 
pathize with the sentiments 'and motives which influenced 
it. We can never survey our own sentiments and motives, 
we can never form any judgment concerning them; unless we 
remove ourselves, as it were, from our own natural station, 
and endeavour to view them as at a certain distance from us. 
But we can do this in no other way than by endeavouring to 
view them with the eyes of other people, or as other people 
are likely to view them. Whatever judgment we can form 
concerning them, accordingly, must always bear some secret 
reference, either to what are, or to what, upon a certain con¬ 
dition, would be, or to what, we imagine, ought to be the 
judgment of others. We endeavour to examine our own con¬ 
duct, as we imagine, any other fair and impartial spectator 
would examine it. If, upon placing ourselves in his situation, 
we thoroughly enter into all the passions and motives which 
influenced it, we approve of it, by sympathy with the approba¬ 
tion of this supposed equitable judge. If otherwise, we enter 
into his disapprobation, and condemn it. 

Were it possible that a human creature could grow up to 
manhood in some solitary place, without any communication 
with his own species, he could no more think of his own char¬ 
acter, of the propriety or demerit of his own sentiments and 
conduct, of the beauty or deformity of his own mind, than of 
the beauty or deformity of his own face. All these are ob¬ 
jects which he cannot easily see, which naturally he does not 
look at, and with regard to which, he is provided with no mir¬ 
ror which can present them to his view. Bring him into so¬ 
ciety, and he is immediately provided with the mirror which 
he wanted before. It is placed in the countenance and beha¬ 
viour of those he lives with, which always mark when they 


Chap. I. 


OF DUTY. - 


161 


enter into, and when they disapprove of his sentiments; and 
it is here that he first views the propriety and impropriety of 
his own passions, the beauty and deformity of his own mind. 
To a man who from his birth was a stranger to society, the 
objects of his passions, the external bodies which either pleased 
or hurt him, would occupy his whole attention. The passions 
themselves, the desires or aversions, the joys or sorrows, which 
those objects excited, though of all things the most immedi¬ 
ately present to him, could scarce ever be the objects of his 
thoughts. The idea of them could never interest him so much 
as to call upon his attentive consideration. The consideration 
of his joy could in him excite no new joy, nor that of his sor¬ 
row any new sorrow, though the consideration of the causes of 
those passions might often excite both. Bring him into society, 
and all his own passions will immediately become the causes of 
new .passions. He will observe that mankind approve of some 
of them, and are disgusted by others. He will be elevated in 
the one case, and cast down in the other; his desires and aver¬ 
sions, his joys and sorrows, will now often become the causes of 
new desires and new aversions, new joys and new sorrows: they 
will now, therefore, interest him deeply, and often call upon 
his most attentive consideration. 

Our first ideas of personal beauty and deformity, are drawn 
from the shape and appearance of others, not from our own. 
We soon become sensible, however, that others exercise the 
same criticism upon us. We are pleased when they approve 
of our figure, and are disobliged when they seem to be dis¬ 
gusted. We become anxious to know how far our appearance 
deserves either their blame or approbation. We examine our 
persons limb by limb, and by placing ourselves before a look- 
ing glass, or by some such expedient, endeavour, as much as 
possible, to view ourselves at the distance and with the eyes 
of other people. If, after this examination, we are satisfied 
with our own appearance, we can more easily support the 
most disadvantageous judgments of others. If on the contrary, 
we are sensible that we are the natural objecs of distaste, 
every appearance of their disapprobation mortifies us beyond 

x 


162 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


all measure. A man who is tolerably handsome, will allow 
you to laugh at any little irregularity in his person; but all 
such jokes are commonly unsupportable to one who is really 
deformed. It is evident, however, that we are anxious about 
our own beauty and deformity, only upon account of its effect 
upon others. If we had no connexion with society, we should 
be altogether indifferent about either. 

In the same manner our first moral criticisms are exercised 
upon the characters and conduct of other people; and we are 
all very forward to observe how each of these affects us. But 
we soon learn, that other people are equally frank with regard 
to our own. We become anxious to know how far we de¬ 
serve their censure or applause, and whether to them we must 
necessarily appear those agreeable or disagreeable creatures 
which they represent us. We begin, upon this account, to 
examine our own passions and conduct, and to consider how 
these must appear to them, by considering how they would 
appear to us if in their situation. We suppose ourselves the 
spectators of our own behaviour, and endeavour to imagine 
what effect it would, in this light, produce upon us. This is 
the only looking glass by which we can, in some measure, 
with the eyes of other people, scrutinize the propriety of our 
own conduct. If in this view it pleases us, we are tolerably 
satisfied. We can be more indifferent about the applause, 
and, in some measure, despise the censure of the world; se¬ 
cure that, however misunderstood or misrepresented, we are 
the natural and proper objects of approbation. On the con¬ 
trary, if we are doubtful about it, we are often upon that very 
account, more anxious to gain their approbation, and provided 
we have not already, as they say, shaken hands with infamy, 
we are altogether distracted at the thoughts of their censure, 
which then strikes us with double severity. 

When I endeavour to .examine my own conduct, when I 
endeavour to psss sentence upon it, and either to approve or 
condemn it, is evident that, in all such cases, I divide my¬ 
self, as it were, into two persons; and that I, the examiner 
and judge, represent a different character from that other I, 


Chap. II. 


OF DUTY. 


163 


the person whose conduct is examined into, and judged of. 
The first is the spectator, whose sentiments with regard to 
my own conduct I endeavour to get into, by placing myself 
in his situation, and by considering how it would appear to 
me, when seen from that particular point of view. The se¬ 
cond is the agent, the person whom I properly call myself, 
and of whose conduct, under the character of a spectator, I 
was endeavouring to form some opinion. The first is the 
judge; the second the person judged of. But that the judge 
should, in every respect, be the same with the person judged 
of, is as impossible, as that the cause should, in every respect, 
be the same with the effect. 

To be amiable and to be meritorious; that is, to deserve 
love and to deserve reward, are the great characters of virtue; 
and to be odious and punishable, of vice. But all these char¬ 
acters have an immediate reference to the sentiments of others. 
Virtue is not said to be amiable, or to be meritorious, because 
it is the object of its own love, or of its own gratitude; but be¬ 
cause it excites those sentiments in other men. The conscious¬ 
ness that it is the object of such favourable regards, is the source 
of that inward tranquillity and self-satisfaction with which it 
is naturally attended, as the suspicion of the contrary, gives 
occasion to the torments of vice. What so great happiness 
as to be beloved, and to know that we deserve to be beloved ? 
What so great misery as to be hated, and to know that we de¬ 
serve to be hated ? 


CHAPTER II. 

Of the love of Praise , and of that of Praise-worthiness ; and 
of the dread of Blame, and of that of Blame-worthiness . 

MAN naturally desires, not only to be loved, but to be 
lovely; or to be that thing which is the natural and proper 
object of love. He naturally dreads, not only to be hated, 

x 2 


164 


OP THE SENSE 


£art III. 


but be hateful; or to be that thing which is the natural and 
proper object of hatred. He desires not only praise, but 
praise-worthiness; or to be that thing which, though it should 
be praised by nobody, is, however, the natural and proper 
object of praise. He dreads, not only blame, but blame-wor¬ 
thiness; or to be that thing, which, though it should be 
blamed by nobody, is, however, the natural and proper object 
of blame. 

The love of praise-worthiness is by no means derived alto¬ 
gether from the love of praise. Those two principles, though 
they resemble one another, though they are connected, and 
often blended with one another, are yet, in many respects, 
distinct and independent of one another. 

The love of and admiration which we naturally conceive 
for those whose character and conduct we approve of, neces¬ 
sarily dispose us to desire to become ourselves the objects of 
the like agreeable sentiments, and to be as amiable and as ad¬ 
mirable as those whom we love and admire the most. Emu¬ 
lation, the anxious desire that we ourselves should excel, is 
originally founded in our admiration of the excellence of 
others. Neither can we be satisfied with being merely ad¬ 
mired for what other people are admired. We must at least 
believe ourselves to be admirable for what they are admirable. 
But, in order to attain this satisfaction, we must become the im¬ 
partial spectators of cur own character and conduct. We must 
endeavour to view them with the eyes of other people, or as 
other people are likely to view them. When seen in this light, 
if they appear to us as we wish, we are happy and contented. 
But it greatly confirms this happiness and contentment when 
we find that other people, viewing them with those very eyes 
with which we, in imagination only, were endeavouring to view 
them, see them precisely in the same light in which we our¬ 
selves had seen them. Their approbation necessarily confirms 
our own self-approbation. Their praise necessarily strengthens 
our own sense of our own praise-worthiness. In this case, so 
far is the love of praise-worthiness from being derived alto¬ 
gether from that of praise; that the love of praise seems, at 


Chap. II. 


OF DUTY. 


165 

least, in a great measure, to be derived from that of praise¬ 
worthiness. 

The most sincere praise can give little pleasure when it 
cannot be considered as some sort of proof of praise-worthi¬ 
ness. It is by no means sufficient that, from ignorance or 
mistake, esteem and admiration should, in some way or other, 
be bestowed upon us. If we are conscious that we do not 
deserve to be so favourably thought of, and that if the truth 
were known, we should be regarded with very different sen¬ 
timents, our satisfaction is far from being complete. The man 
who applauds us either for actions which we did not perform, 
or for motives which had no sort of influence upon our con¬ 
duct, applauds not us, but another person. We can derive 
no sort of satisfaction from his praises. To us they should 
be more mortifying than any censure, and should perpetually 
call to our minds the most humbling of all reflections, the re¬ 
flection, of what we ought so be, but what we are not. A 
woman who paints, could derive, one should imagine, but lit¬ 
tle vanity from the compliments that are paid to her com¬ 
plexion. These, we should expect, ought rather to put her 
in mind of .the sentiments which her real complexion would 
excite, and mortify her the more by the contrast. To be 
pleased with such groundless applause is a proof of the most 
superficial levity and weakness. It is what is properly called 
vanity, and is the foundation of the most ridiculous and con- 
temptable vices, the vices of affectation and common lying; 
follies, which, if experience did not teach us how common 
they are, one should imagine the least spark of common sense 
would save us from. The foolish liar, who endeavours to ex¬ 
cite the admiration of the company, by the relation of adven¬ 
tures which never had any existence; the important coxcomb, 
who gives himself airs of rank and distinction which he well 
knows he has no just pretensions to; are both of them, no 
doubt, pleased with the applause which they fancy they meet 
with. But their vanity arises from so gross an illusion of the 
imagination, that it is difficult to conceive how any rational 
creature should be imposed upon by it. When they place 


166 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


themselves in the situation of those whom they fancy they 
have deceived, they are struck with the highest admiration 
for their own persons. They look upon themselves, not in 
that light in which, they know, they ought to appear to their 
companions, but in that which they believe their companions 
actually look upon them. Their superficial weakness and 
trivial folly, hinder them from ever turning their eyes inwards, 
or from seeing themselves in that despicable point of view in 
which their own consciences must tell them that they would 
appear to every body, if the real truth should ever come to 
be known. 

As ignorant and groundless praise can give no solid joy, 
no satisfaction that will bear any serious examination; so, 
on the contrary, it often gives real comfort to reflect, that 
though no praise should actually be bestowed upon us, our 
conduct, however, has been such as to deserve it, and has been 
in every respect suitable to those measures and rules by which 
praise and approbation are naturally and commonly bestowed. 
We are pleased, not only with praise, but with having done 
what is praise-worthy. We are pleased to think that we have 
rendered ourselves the natural objects of approbation, though 
no approbation should ever actually be bestowed upon us: 
and we are mortified to reflect that we have justly merited 
the blame of those we live with, though that sentiment should 
never actually be exerted against us. The man who is con¬ 
scious to himself that he has exactly observed those measures 
of conduct which experience informs him are generally a- 
greeable, reflects with satisfaction on the propriety of his own 
behaviour. When he views it in the light in which the im¬ 
partial spectator would view it, he thoroughly enters into all 
the motives which influenced it. He looks back upon every 
part of it with pleasure and approbation, and though mankind 
should never be acquainted with what he has done, he regards 
himself, not so much according to the light in which they ac¬ 
tually regard him, as according to that in which they would 
regard him if they were better informed. He anticipates the 
applause and admiration which in this case would be bestowed 


Chap. II. 


OF DUTY. 


16*7 


upon him, and he applauds and admires himself by sympathy 
with sentiments, which do not indeed actually take place, but 
which the ignorance of the public alone hinders from taking 
place, which he knows are the natural and ordinary effects of 
Such conduct, which his imagination strongly connects with 
it, and which he has acquired a habit of conceiving as some¬ 
thing that naturally and in propriety ought to follow from it. 
Men have voluntarily thrown away life to acquire after death 
a renown which they could no longer enjoy. Their imagina¬ 
tion, in the mean time, anticipated that fame which was in 
future times to be bestowed upon them. Those applauses 
which they were never to hear rung in their ears; the thoughts 
of that admiration, whose effects they were never to feel, 
played about their hearts, banished from their breasts the 
strongest of all natural fears, and transported them to perform 
actions which seem almost beyond the reach of human nature. 
But in point of reality there is surely no great difference be¬ 
tween that approbation which is not to be bestowed till we 
can no longer enjoy it, and that which, indeed, is never to 
be bestowed, but which would be bestowed, if the world was 
ever made to understand properly the real circumstances 
of our behaviour. If the one often produces such violent ef¬ 
fects, we cannot wonder that the other should always be high¬ 
ly regarded. 

Nature, when she formed man for society, endowed him 
with an original desire to please, and an original aversion to 
offend his brethren. She taught him to feel pleasure in their 
favourable, and pain in their unfavourable regard. She ren¬ 
dered their approbation most flattering and most agreeable 
to him for its own sake; and their disapprobation most mor¬ 
tifying and most offensive. 

But this desire of the approbation, and this aversion to the 
disapprobation of his brethren, would not alone have rendered 
him fit for that society for which he was made. Nature, ac¬ 
cordingly, has endowed him, not only with a desire of being 
approved of, but with a desire of being what ought to be ap¬ 
proved of; or of being what he himself approves of in other 


168 


or THE SENSE 


Part III. 


men. The first desire could only have made him wish to ap¬ 
pear to be fit for society. The second was necessary in order 
to render him anxious to be really fit. The first could only 
have prompted him to the affectation of virtue, and to the 
concealment of vice. The second was necessary in order 
to inspire him with the real love of virtue, and with the 
real abhorrence of vice. In every well-informed mind this 
second desire seems to be the strongest of the two. It is 
only the weakest and most superficial of mankind who can 
be much delighted with that praise which they themselves 
know altogether unmerited. A weak man may sometimes 
be pleased with it, but a wise man rejects it upon all occasions. 
But, though a wise man feels little pleasure from praise where 
he knows there is no praise-worthiness, he often feels the 
highest in doing what he knows to be praise-worthy, though 
he knows equally well that no praise is ever to be bestowed 
upon it. To obtain the approbation of mankind, where no 
approbation is due, can never be an object of any importance 
to him. To obtain that approbation where it is really due, 
may sometimes be an object of no great importance to him. 
But to be that thing which deserves approbation, must always 
be an object of the highest. 

To desire or even to accept of the praise, where no praise 
is due, can be the effect only of the most contemptible vanity. 
To desire it where it is really due, is to desire no more than 
that a most essential act of justice should be done to us. The 
love of just fame, of true glory, even for its own sake, and in¬ 
dependent of any advantage which he can derive from it, is 
not unworthy even of a wise man. He sometimes, however, 
neglects, and even despises it; and he is never more apt to 
do so than when he has most perfect assurance of the perfect 
propriety of every part of his own conduct. His self-appro¬ 
bation in this case, stands in need of no confirmation from the 
approbation of other men. It is alone sufficient, and he is 
contented with it. This self-approbation, if not the only, is at 
least the principal object, about which he can or ought to be 
anxious. The love of it, is the love of virtue. 


Chap. II. 


OP DUTY. 


169 


As the love and admiration which we naturally conceive 
for some characters, dispose us to wish to become ourselves 
the proper objects of such agreeable sentiments; so the hatred 
and contempt which we as naturally conceive for others, dis¬ 
pose us, perhaps still more strongly, to dread the very thought 
of resembling them in any respect. Neither is it, in this case 
too, so much the thought of being hated and despised that we 
are afraid of, as that of being hateful and despicable. We 
dread the thought of doing any thing which can render us the 
just and proper objects of the hatred and contempt of our fel¬ 
low-creatures; even though we had the most perfect security 
that those sentiments were never actually to be exerted against 
us. The man who has broke through all those measures of 
conduct, which can alone render him agreeable to mankind, 
though he should have the most perfect assurance that what 
he had done was for ever to be concealed from every human 
eye, it is all to no purpose. When he looks back upon it, and 
views it in the light in which the impartial spectator would 
view it, he finds that he can enter into none of the motives 
which influenced it. He is abashed and confounded at the 
thoughts of it, and necessarily feel a very high degree of that 
shame which he would be exposed to, if his actions should 
ever come to be generally known. His imagination, in this 
case too, anticipates the contempt and derision from which 
nothing saves him but the ignorance of those he lives with. 
He still feels that he is the natural object of these sentiments, 
and still trembles at the thought of what he would suffer, if 
they \vere ever actually exerted against him. But if what 
lie had been guilty of was not merely one of those impropri¬ 
eties which are the objects of simple disapprobation, but one 
of those enormous crimes which excite detestation and resent¬ 
ment, he could never think of it, as long as he had any sensi¬ 
bility left, without feeling all the agony of horror and remorse; 
and though he could be assured that no man was ever to know 
it, and could even bring himself to believe that there was no 
God to revenge it, he would still feel enough of both these 
sentiments to embitter the whole ©f his life: he would stifl. 


170 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


regard himself as the natural object of the hatred and indig¬ 
nation of all his fellow-creatures; and if his heart was not 
grown callous by the habit of crimes, he could not think with¬ 
out terror and astonishment even of the manner in which man¬ 
kind would look upon him, of what would be the expression 
of their countenance and of their eyes, if the dreadful truth 
should ever come to be known. These natural pangs of an 
affrighted conscience are the daemons, the avenging furies, 
which, in this life, haunt the guilty, which allow them neither 
quiet nor repose, which often drive them to despair and dis¬ 
traction, from which no assurance of secrecy can protect them, 
from which no principles of irreligion can entirely deliver 
them, and from which nothing can free them but the vilest 
and most abject of all states, a complete insensibility to ho¬ 
nour „and infamy, to vice and virtue. Men of the most detest¬ 
able characters, who, in the execution of the most dreadful 
crimes, had taken their measures so coolly as to avoid even 
the suspicion of guilt, have sometimes been driven, by the 
horror of their situation, to discover, of their own accord, 
what no human sagacity could ever have investigated. By ac¬ 
knowledging their guilt, by submitting themselves to the re¬ 
sentment of their offended fellow-citizens, and, by thus satiat¬ 
ing that vengeance of which they were sensible that they had 
become the proper objects, they hoped, by their death to re¬ 
concile themselves, at least in their own imagination, to the 
natural sentiments of mankind; to be able to consider them¬ 
selves as less worthy of hatred and resentment; to atone in 
some measure for their crimes, and, by thus becoming the ob¬ 
jects, rather of compassion than of horror, if possible to die in 
peace and with the forgiveness of all their fellow-creatures. 
Compared to what they felt before the discovery, even the 
thought of this, it seems, was happiness. 

In such cases, the horror of blame-worthiness seems, even 
in persons who cannot be suspected of any extraordinary de¬ 
licacy or sensibility of character, completely to conquer the 
dread of blame. In order to allay that horror, in order to pa¬ 
cify, in some degree, the remorse of their own consciences. 


Chap. II. 


OF DUTY. 


m 


they voluntarily submitted themselves both to the reproach 
and to the punishment which they knew were due to their 
crimes, but which, at the same time, they might easily have 
avoided. 

They are the most frivolous and superficial of mankind only 
who can be much delighted with that praise which they them¬ 
selves know to be altogether unmerited. Unmerited reproach, 
however, is frequently capable of mortifying very severely 
even men of more than ordinary constancy. Men of the most 
ordinary constancy,.indeed, easily learn to despise those fool¬ 
ish tales which are so frequently circulated in society, and 
which, from their own absurdity and falsehood, never fail to 
die away in the course of a few weeks, or of a few days. But 
an innocent man, though of more than ordinary constancy, is 
often not only shocked, but most severely mortified by the seri¬ 
ous, though false, imputation of a crime; especially when that 
imputation happens unfortunately to be supported by some cir¬ 
cumstances which gave it an air of probability. He is hum¬ 
bled to find that any body should think so meanly of his char¬ 
acter as to suppose him capable of being guilty of it. Though 
perfectly conscious of his own innocence, the very imputation 
seems often, even in his own imagination, to. throw a shadow 
of disgrace and dishonour upon his character. His just in¬ 
dignation, too, at so very gross an injury, which however, it 
may frequently be improper, and sometimes even impossible 
to revenge, is itself a very painful sensation. There is. no 
greater tormentor of the human breast than violent resent¬ 
ment which cannot be gratified. An innocent man, brought 
to the scaffold by the false imputation of an infamous or odi¬ 
ous crime, suffers the most cruel misfortune which it is possi¬ 
ble for innocence to suffer. The agony of his mind may, in 
this case, frequently be greater than that of those who suffer 
for the like crimes, of which they have been actually guilty. 
Profligate criminals, such as commom thieves and highwaymen, 
have frequently little sense of the baseness of their own con¬ 
duct, and consequently no remorse. Without troubling them¬ 
selves about the justice or injustice of the punishment, they have 


of the sense 


Part III. 


172 

always been accustomed to look upon the gibbet as a lot very 
likely to fall to them. When it does fall to them, therefore, 
they consider themselves only as not quite so lucky as some 
of their companions, and submit to their fortune, without any 
other uneasiness than what may arise from the fear of death; 
a fear which, even by such worthless wretches, we frequently 
see, can be so easily, and so very completely conquered. The 
innocent man, on the contrary, over and above the uneasiness 
which this fear may occasion, is tormented by his own indig¬ 
nation at the injustice which has been done to him. He is 
struck with horror at the thoughts of the infamy which the 
punishment may shed upon his memory, and foresees, with 
the most exquisite anguish, that he is hereafter to be remem¬ 
bered by his dearest friends and relation, not with regret and 
affection, but with shame, and even with horror for his sup¬ 
posed disgraceful conduct: and the shades of death appear 
to close round him with a darker and more melancholy gloom 
than naturally belongs to them. Such fatal accidents, for 
the tranquillity of mankind, it is to be hoped, happen very 
rarely in any country; but they happen sometimes in all 
countries; even in those where justice is in general very well 
administered, The unfortunate Galas, a man of much more 
than ordinary constancy (broke upon the wheel and burnt at 
Tholouse for the supposed murder of his own son, of which 
he was perfectly innocent), seemed, with his last breath, to 
deprecate, not so much the cruelty of the punishment, as the 
disgrace which the imputation might bring upon his memory. 
After he had been broke, and was just going to be thrown 
into the fire, the monk who attended the execution, exhorted 
him to confess the crime for which he had condemned. My 
father, said Galas, can you bring yourself to believe that I am 
guilty? 

To persons in such unfortunate circumstances, that humble 
philosophy which confines its views to this life, can afford, per¬ 
haps, but little consolation. Every thing that could render 
cither life or death respectable is taken from them. They are 
condemned to death and to everlasting infamv. Religion can 

Os O 


Chap. II. 


OP DUTY. 


173 


alone afford them any effectual comfort. She alone can tell 
them, that it is of little importance what man may think of 
their conduct, while the all-seeing Judge of the world ap¬ 
proves of it. She alone can present to them the view of an¬ 
other world; a world of more candour, humanity, and jus¬ 
tice, than the present; where their innocence is in due time 
to be declared, and their virtue to be finally rewarded: and 
the same great principle which can alone strike terror into 
triumphant vice, affords the only effectual consolation to dis¬ 
graced and insulted innocence. 

In smaller offences, as well as in greater crimes, it fre¬ 
quently happen^ that a person of sensibility is much more 
hurt by the unjust imputation, than the real criminal is by the 
actual guilt. A woman of gallantry laughs even at the well- 
founded surmises which are circulated concerning her conduct. 
The worst founded surmise of the same kind is a mortal stab 
to an innocent virgin. The person who is deliberately guilty 
of a disgraceful action, we may lay it down, I believe, as a 
general rule, can seldom have much sense of the disgrace; 
and the person who is habitually guilty of it, can scarce ever 
have any. 

When every man, even of middling understanding, so 
readily despises unmerited applause, how it comes to pass that 
unmerited reproach should often be capable of mortifying so 
severely men of the soundest and best judgment, may, perhaps, 
deserve some consideration. 

Pain, I have already had occasion to observe, is in almost 
all cases, a more pungent sensation than the opposite and cor¬ 
respondent pleasure. The one, almost always, depresses us 
much more below the ordinary, or what may be called the 
natural state of our happiness, than the other ever raises us 
above it. A man of sensibility is apt to be more humiliated 
by just censure than he is ever elevated by just applause. Un¬ 
merited applause a wise man rejects with contempt upon all 
occasions; but he often feels very severely the injustice of 
unmerited censure. By suffering himself to be applauded tor 
what he has not performed, by assuming a merit which does 


174* ' of the" sense Part III. 

not belong to him, he feels that he is guilty of a mean false¬ 
hood, and deserves, not the admiration, but the contempt of 
those very persons who, by mistake, had been led to admire 
him. It may perhaps, give him some well-founded pleasure 
to find that he has been, by many people, thought capable of 
performing what he did not perform. But, though he may 
be obliged to his friends for their good opinion, he would 
think himself guilty of the greatest baseness if he did not im¬ 
mediately undeceive them. It gives him little pleasure to 
look upon himself in the light in which other people actually 
look upon him, when he is conscious that, if they knew the 
truth, they would look upon him in a very different light. 
A weak man, however, is often much delighted with viewing 
himself in this false and delusive light. He assumes the merit 
of every laudable action that is ascribed to him, and pretends 
to that of many which nobody ever thought of ascribing to 
him. He pretends to have done what he never did, to have 
written what another wrote, to have invented what another 
discovered; and is led into all the miserable vices of plagia¬ 
rism and common lying. But though no man of middling 
good sense can derive much pleasure from the imputation of 
a laudable action which he never performed, yet a wise man 
may suffer great pain from the serious imputation of a crime 
which he never committed. Nature, in this case, has rendered 
the pain, not only more pungent than the opposite and cor¬ 
respondent pleasure, but she has rendered it so in a much 
greater than the ordinary degree. A denial rids a man at 
once of the foolish and ridiculous pleasure; but it will not al¬ 
ways rid him of his pain. When he refuses the merit which 
is ascribed to him, nobody doubts his veracity. It may be 
doubted when he denies the crime which he is accused of. 
He is at once enraged at the falsehood of the imputation, and 
mortified to find that any credit should be given to it. He 
feels that his character is not sufficient to protect him. He 
feels that his brethren, far from looking upon him in that 
light in which he anxiously desires to be viewed by them, 
think him capable of being guilty of what he is accused of. 




Chap. II. OF^iftjTY. 

He knows perfectly that he has not been guilty. He knows 
perfectly what he has done; but, perhaps, scarce any man 
can know perfectly what he himself is Capable of doing. 
What the peculiar constitution of his own mind may or may 
not admit of, is, perhaps, more- or less a matter of doubt 
to every man. The trust and good opinion of his friends 
and neighbours, tend more than any thing to relieve him 
from this most disagreeable doubt; their distrust and unfa¬ 
vourable opinion to increase it. He may think himself very 
confident that their unfavourable judgment is wrong; but 
this confidence can seldom be so great as to hinder that judg¬ 
ment from making some impression upon him; and the 
greater his sensibility, the greater his delicacy, the greater his 
worth, in short, this impression is likely to be the greater. 

The agreement or disagreement both of the sentiments 
and judgments of other people with our own, is, in all cases, 
it must be observed, of more or less importance to us, exactly 
in proportion as we ourselves are more or less uncertain about 
the propriety of our own sentiments, about the accuracy of 
our own judgments. 

A man of sensibility may sometimes feel great uneasiness 
lest he should have yielded too much even to what may be 
called an honourable passion; to his just indignation, perhaps, 
at the injury which may have been done either to himself or 
to his friend. He is anxiously afraid lest, meaning only to 
act with spirit, and to do justice, he may, from the too great 
vehemence of his emotion, have done a real injury to some 
other person; who, though not innocent, may not have been 
altogether so guilty as he at first apprehended. The opinion 
of other people becomes, in this case, of the utmost impor¬ 
tance to him. Their approbation is the most healing balsam; 
their disapprobation, the bitterest and most tormenting poison 
that can be poured into his uneasy mind. When he is per¬ 
fectly satisfied with every part of his own conduct, the judg¬ 
ment of other people is often of less importance to him. 

There are some very noble and beautiful arts, in which 
the degree of excellence can be determined only by a certain 


.176 


OP TIIE SENSE 


Part III. 


nicety of taste, of which the decisions, however, appear al¬ 
ways, in some measure, uncertain. There are others, in which 
the success admits, either of clear demonstration, or very sa¬ 
tisfactory proof. Among the candidates for excellence in 
those different arts, the anxiety about the public opinion is 
always much greater in the former than in the latter. 

The beauty of poetry is a matter of such nicety, that a 
young beginner can scarce ever be certain that he has attained 
it. Nothing delights him so much, therefore, as the favoura¬ 
ble judgments of his friends and of the public; and nothing 
mortifies him so severely as the contrary. The one esta¬ 
blishes, the other shakes, the good opinion which he is anxi¬ 
ous to entertain concerning his own performances. Experi¬ 
ence and success may in time give him a little more confidence 
in his own judgment. He is at all times, however, liable to 
be most severely mortified by the unfavourable judgments of 
the public. Racine was so disgusted by the indifferent suc¬ 
cess of his Phsedra, the finest tragedy, perhaps, that is extant 
in any language, that, though in the vigour of his life, and at 
the height of his abilities, he resolved to write no more for 
the stage. That great poet used frequently to tell his son, 
that the most paltry and impertinent criticism had always 
given him more pain, than the highest and justice eulogy had 
ever given him pleasure. The extreme sensibility of Voltaire 
to the slightest censure of the same kind is well known to 
every body. The Dunciad of Mr. Pope is an everlasting 
monument of how much the most correct, as well as the most 
elegant and harmonious of all the English poets, had been 
hurt by the criticisms of the lowest and most contemptable 
authors. Gray (who joins to the sublimity of Milton the 
elegance and harmony of Pope, and to whom nothing is 
wanting to render him, perhaps, the first poet in the Eng¬ 
lish language, but to have written a little more) is said to 
have been so much hurt, by a foolish and impertinent parody 
on two of his finest odes, that he never afterwards attempted 
any considerable work. Those men of letters who value 


Chap. II. 


OF DUTY. 


177 


themselves upon what is called fine writing in prose, approach 
somewhat to the sensibility of poets. 

Mathematicians, on the contrary, who may have the 
most perfect assurance, both of the truth and of the impor¬ 
tance of their discoveries, are frequently very indifferent about 
the reception which they may meet with from the public. 
The two greatest mathematicians that I ever have had the 
honour to be known to, and, I believe, the two greatest that 
have lived in my time, Dr Robert Simpson of Glasgow, and 
Dr Matthew Stewart of Edinburgh, never seemed to feel even 
the slightest uneasiness from the neglect with which the ig¬ 
norance of the public received some of their most valuable 
works. The great work of Sir Isaac Newton, his Mathema¬ 
tical Principles of Natural Philosophy , I have been told, was 
for several years neglected by the public. The tranquillity 
of that great man, it is probable, never suffered, upon that ac¬ 
count, the interruption of a single quarter of an hour. Natu¬ 
ral philosophers, in their independency upon the public opi¬ 
nion, approach nearly to mathematicians, and, in their judg¬ 
ments concerning the merit of their own discoveries and ob¬ 
servations, enjoy some degree of the same security and tran¬ 
quillity. 

The morals of those different classes of men of letters, are, 
perhaps, sometimes somewhat affected by this very great dif¬ 
ference in their situation with regard to the public. 

Mathematicians and natural philosophers, from their 
independency upon the public opinion, have little temptation 
to form themselves into factions and cabals, either for the 
support of their own reputation, or for the depression of that 
of their rivals. They are almost always men of the most ami¬ 
able simplicity of manners, who live in good harmony with 
one another, are the friends of one another’s reputation, enter 
into no intrigue in order to secure the public applause, but 
are pleased when their works are approved of, without being 
either much vexed or very angry when they are neglected. 

It is not always the same case with poets, or with those 
who value themselves upon what is called fine writing. They 

z 


178 


02 THE SENSE 


Part III. 


are very apt to divide themselves into a sort of literary fac¬ 
tions ; each cabal being often avowedly and almost always se¬ 
cretly, the mortal enemy of'the reputation of every other, 
and employing all the mean arts of intrigue and solicitation 
to preoccupy the public opinion in favour of the works of its 
own members, and against those of its enemies and rivals. 
In France, Despreaux and Racine did not think it below them 
to set themselves at the head of a literary cabal in order to 
depress the reputation, first of Quinault and Perrault, and af¬ 
terwards of Fontenelle and La Motte, and even to treat the 
good La Fontaine with a species of most disrespectful kind¬ 
ness. In England, the amiable Mr Addison did not think 
it unworthy of his gentle and modest character to set himself 
at the head of a little cabal of the same kind, in order to keep 
down the rising reputation of Mr Pope. Mr Fontenelle, in 
writing the lives and characters of the members of the aca¬ 
demy of sciences, a society of mathematicians and natural 
philosophers, has frequent opportunities of celebrating the 
amiable simplicity of their manners; a quality which, he ob¬ 
serves, was so universal among them as to be characteristical, 
rather of that whole class of men of letters, than of any indi¬ 
vidual. Mr D’Alembert, in writing the lives and characters 
of the members of the French academy, a society of poets and 
fine writers, or those who are supposed to be such, seems not 
to have had such frequent opportunities of making any re¬ 
mark of this kind, and nowhere pretends to represent this 
amiable quality as characteristical of that class of men of let¬ 
ters whom he celebrates. 

Our uncertainty concerning our own merit, and our anx¬ 
iety to think favourably of it, should together naturally e- 
nough make us desirous to know the opinion of other people 
concerning it; to be more than ordinarily elevated when that 
opinion is favourable, and to be more than ordinarily morti¬ 
fied when it is otherwise: but they should not make us desir¬ 
ous either of obtaining the favourable, or of avoiding the un¬ 
favourable opinion, by intrigue and cabal. When a man has 
bribed all the judges, the most unanimous decision of the 


OF DUTY. 


179 


Chap. II. 

court, though it may gain him his law-suit, cannot give him 
any assurance that he was in the right: and had he carried 
on his law-suit merely to satisfy himself that he was in the 
right, he never would have bribed the judges. But though 
he wished to find himself in the right, he wished likewise to 
gain his law-suit; and therefore he bribed the judges. If 
praise were of no consequence to us, but as a proof of our 
own praise-worthiness, we never should endeavour to obtain 
it by unfair means. But, though to wise men it is, at least in 
doubtful cases, of principle consequence upon this account; it 
is likewise of some consequence upon its own account: and 
therefore (we cannot, indeed, upon such occasions, call them 
wise men, but) men very much above the common level, have 
sometimes attempted both to obtain praise and to avoid blame, 
by very unfair means. 

Praise and blame express what actually are; praise-wor¬ 
thiness and blame-worthiness, what naturally ought to be the 
sentiments of other people with regard to our character and 
conduct. The love of praise is the desire of obtaining the 
favourable sentiments of our brethren. The love of praise¬ 
worthiness is the desire of rendering ourselves the proper ob¬ 
jects of those sentiments. So far those two principles resem¬ 
ble and are akin to one another. The like affinity and re¬ 
semblance take place between the dread of blame and that of 
blame-worthiness. 

The man who desires to do, or who actually does, a praise¬ 
worthy action, may likewise desire the praise which is due to 
it, and sometimes, perhaps, more than is due to it. The two 
principles are in this case blended together. How far his con¬ 
duct may have been influenced by the one, and how far by 
the other, may frequently be unknown even to himself. It 
must almost always be so to other people. They who are dis¬ 
posed to lessen the merit of his conduct, impute it chiefly or 
altogether to the mere love of praise, or to what they call 
mere vanity. They who are disposed to think more favoura¬ 
bly of it, impute it chiefly or altogether to the love of praise¬ 
worthiness; to the love of what is really lionouraole and no- 


180 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


ble in human conduct; to the desire not merely of obtaining, 
but of deserving the approbation and applause of his brethren. 
The imagination of the spectator throws upon it either the 
one colour or the other* according either to his habits of 
thinking, or to the favour or dislike which he may bear to 
the person whose conduct he is considering. 

Some splenetic philosophers, in judging of human nature, 
have done as peevish individuals are apt to do in judging of 
the conduct of one another, and have imputed to the love 
of praise, or to what they call vanity, every action which 
ought to be ascribed to that of praise-worthiness. I shall 
hereafter have occasion to give an account of some of their 
systems, and shall not at present stop to examine them. 

Very few men can be satisfied with their own private 
consciousness that they have attained those qualities, or per¬ 
formed those actions, which they admire and think praise¬ 
worthy in other people; unless it is, at the same time, ge¬ 
nerally acknowledged that they possess the one, or have per¬ 
formed the other; or, in other words, unless they have ac¬ 
tually obtained that praise which they think due both to the 
one and to the other. In this respect, however, men differ 
considerably from one another. Some seem indifferent about 
the praise, when, in their own minds, they are perfectly sa¬ 
tisfied that they have attained the praise-worthiness. Others 
appear much less anxious about the praise-worthiness than 
about the praise. 

No man can be completely, or even tolerably satisfied, 
with having avoided every thing blame-worthy in his con¬ 
duct; unless he has likewise avoided the blame or the re¬ 
proach. A wise man may frequently neglect praise, even 
when he has best deserved it; but, in all matters of serious 
consequence, he will most carefully endeavour so to regulate 
his conduct as to avoid, not only blame-worthiness, but, as 
much as possible every probable imputation of blame. He will 
never, indeed, avoid blame by doing any thing which he judges 
blame-worthy; by omitting any part of his duty, or by neglect¬ 
ing any opportunity of doing any thing which he judges to be 


Chap. II. 


OF DUTY. 


181 


really and greatly praise-worthy. But, with these modifica¬ 
tions, he will most anxiously and carefully avoid it. To 
show much anxiety about praise, even for praise-worthy ac¬ 
tions, is seldom a mark of great wisdom, but generally of 
some degree of weakness. But, in being anxious to avoid 
the shadow of blame or reproach, there may be no weakness, 
but frequently the most of praise-worthy prudence. 

<c Many people, says Cicero, u despise glory, who are 
“ yet most severely mortified by unjust reproach; and that 
“ most inconsistently.” This inconsistency, however, seems 
to be founded in the unalterable principles of human nature. 

The all-wise Author of Nature has, in this manner, taught 
man to respect the sentiments and judgments of his brethren; 
to be more or less pleased when they approve of his conduct, 
and to be more or less hurt when they disapprove of it. He 
has made man, if I may say so, the immediate judge of man¬ 
kind; and has in this respect, as in many others, created him 
after his own image, and appointed him his vicegerent upon 
earth, to superintend the behaviour of his brethren. They 
are taught by nature, to acknowledge that power and juridic- 
tion which has thus been conferred upon him, to be more 
or less humbled and mortified when they have incurred his 
censure, and to be more or less elated when they have ob¬ 
tained his applause. 

But though man has, in this manner, been rendered the 
immediate judge of mankind, he has been rendered so only 
in the first instance; and an appeal lies from his sentence to 
a much higher tribunal, to the tribunal of their own con¬ 
sciences, to that of the supposed impartial and well-informed 
spectator, to that of the man within the breast, the great 
judge and arbiter of their conduct. The juridictions of those 
two tribunals are founded upon principles, which, though in 
some respects resembling and akin, are, however, in reality 
different and distinct. The jurisdiction of the man without, 
is founded altogether in the desire of actual praise, and in 
the aversion to actual blame. The jurisdiction of the man 
within, is founded altogether in the desire of praise-worthi- 


182 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


ness; and in the aversion to blame-worthiness; in the de¬ 
sire of possessing those qualities, and performing those ac¬ 
tions, which we love and admire in other people; and in the 
dread of possessing those qualities, and performing those ac¬ 
tions, which we hate and despise in other people. If the 
man without should applaud us, either for actions which we 
have not performed, or for motives which had no influence 
upon us; the man within can immediately humble that pride 
and elevation of mind which such groundless acclamations 
might otherwise occasion, by telling us, that as we know that 
we do not deserve them, we render ourselves despicable by 
accepting them. If, on the contrary, the man without should 
reproach us, either for actions which we never performed, 
or for motives which had no influence upon those which we 
may have performed; the man within may immediately cor¬ 
rect this false judgment, and assure us, that we are by no- 
means the proper objects of that censure which has so un¬ 
justly been bestowed upon us. But in this and in some other 
cases, the man within seems sometimes, as it were, astonished 
and confounded by the vehemence and clamour of the man 
without. The violence and loudness, with which blame is 
sometimes poured out upon us, seems to stupify and benumb 
our natural sense of praise-worthines3 and blame-worthiness; 
and the judgments of the man within, though not, perhaps, 
absolutely altered or perverted, are, however, so much shaken 
in the steadiness and firmness of their decision, that their 
natural effect, in securing the tranquillity of the mind, is fre¬ 
quently in a great measure destroyed. We scarce dare to 
absolve ourselves, when all our brethren appear loudly to con¬ 
demn us. The supposed impartial spectator of our conduct 
seems to give his opinion in our favour with fear and hesita¬ 
tion ; when that of all the real spectators, when that of all 
those with whose eyes and from whose station he endeav¬ 
ours to consider it, is unanimously and violently against us. 
In such cases, this demigod within the breast appears, like 
the demigods of the poets, though partly of immortal, yet 
partly too of mortal extraction. When his judgments are 


Chap. II. 


OE DUTY. 


1S3 


steadily and firmly directed by the sense of praise-worthiness 
and blame-worthiness, he seems to act suitably to his divine 
extraction: but when he suffers himself to be astonished and 
confounded by the judgments of ignorant and weak man, he 
discovers his connexion with mortality, and appears to act 
suitably, rather to tjie human, than to the divine, part of his 
origin. 

In such cases, the only effectual consolation of humbled 
and afflicted men, lies in an appeal to a still higher tribunal, 
to that of the all-seeing Judge of the world, whose eye can 
never be deceived, and whose judgments can never be per¬ 
verted. A firm confidence in the unerring rectitude of this 
great tribunal, before which his innocence is in due time to 
be declared, and his virtue to be finally rewarded, can alone 
support him under the weakness and despondency of his 
own mind, under the perturbation and astonishment of the 
man within the breast, whom nature has set up, as, in this 
life, the great guardian, not only of his innocence, but of his 
tranquility. Our happiness in this life is thus, upon many 
occasions, dependent upon the humble hope and expectation 
of a life to come: a hope and expectation deeply rooted in 
human nature; which can alone support its lofty ideas of its 
own dignity, can illumine the dreary prospect of its con¬ 
tinually approaching mortality, and maintain its cheerfulness 
under all the heaviest calamities to which, from the disorders 
of this life, it may sometimes be exposed. That there is a 
world to come, where exact justice will be done to every man, 
where every man will be ranked with those, who, in the mo¬ 
ral and intellectual qualities, are really his equals; where the 
owner of those humble talents and virtues which, from being 
depressed by fortune, had, in this life, no opportunity of dis¬ 
playing themselves; which were unknown, not only to the 
public, but which he himself could scarce be sure that he 
possessed, and for which even the man within the breast could 
scarce venture to afford him any distinct and clear testimony; 
where that modest, silent, and unknown merit will be placed 
upon a level, and sometimes above those who, in this world, 


184? 


OF TIIE SENSE 


Part III. 


had enjoyed the highest reputation, and who, from the ad¬ 
vantage of their situation, had been enabled to perform the 
most splendid and dazzling actions; is a doctrine in every re¬ 
spect so venerable, so comfortable to the weakness, so flattering 
to the grandeur of human nature, that the virtuous man who 
has the misfortune to doubt of it, cannot possibly avoid wish¬ 
ing most earnestly and anxiously to believe it. It could ne¬ 
ver have been exposed to the derision of the scoffer, had not 
the distribution of rewards and punishments, which some of 
its most zealous asserters have taught us was to be made in 
that world to come, being too frequently in direct opposition 
to all our moral sentiments. 

That the assiduous courtier is often more favoured than 
the faithful and active servant; that attendance and adulation 
are often shorter and surer roads to preferments than merit 
or service; and that a campaign at Versailles or St. James’s 
is often worth two either in Germany or Flanders, is a com¬ 
plaint which we have all heard from many a venerable, but 
discontented old officer. But what is considered as the 
greatest reproach even to the weakness of earthly sovereigns, 
has been ascribed, as an act of justice, to divine perfection; 
and the duties of devotion, the public and private worship of 
the Deity, have been represented, even by men of virtue and 
abilities, as the sole virtues which can either entitle to reward 
or exempt from punishment in the life to come. They were 
the virtues, perhaps, most suitable to their station, and in 
which they themselves chiefly excelled; and we are all na¬ 
turally disposed to over-rate the excellencies of our own char¬ 
acters. In the discourse which the eloquent and philoso¬ 
phical Massillon pronounced, on giving his benediction to 
the standards of the regiment of Catinat, there is the follow¬ 
ing address to the officers: « What is the most deplorable 
« in your situation, Gentleman, is, that in a life hard and 
“ painful, in which the services and the duties sometimes go 
“ beyond the rigour and severity of the most austere clois- 
“ ters; you suffer always in vain for the life to come, and 
“ frequently even for this life. Alas! the solitary monk in 


Chap. II. 


OF DUTY. 


185 


“ his cell, obliged to mortify the flesh and to subject it to the 
“ spirit, is supported by the hope of an assured recompence, 
“ and by the secret unction of that grace which softens the 
(( yoke of the Lord. But you, on the bed of death, can you 
“ dare to represent to Him your fatigues and the daily hard- 
“ ships of your employment ? can you dar$ to solicit Him 
“ for any recompence? and in all the exertions that you have 
<c made, in all the violences that you have done to yourselves, 
“ what is there that He ought to place to His own account? 
(f The best days of your life, however, have been sacrificed 
“ to your profession, and ten years service has more worn 
“ out your body, than would, perhap, have done a whole 
« life of repentance and mortification. Alas! my brother, 
£< one single day of those sufferings, consecrated to the Lord, 
« would, perhaps, have obtained you an eternal happiness. 
« One single action, painful to nature, and offered up to 
« Him, would, perhaps, have secured to you the inheritance 
« of the Saints. And you have done all this, and in vain, 
« for this world.” 

To compare, in this manner, the futile mortifications of a 
monastery, to the ennobling hardships and hazards of war ; 
to suppose that one day, or one hour, employed in the former 
should, in the eye of the great Judge of the world, have more 
merit than a whole life spent honourably in the latter, is sure¬ 
ly contrary to all our moral sentiments; to all the principles 
by which nature has taught us to regulate our contempt or 
admiration. It is this spirit, however, which, while it has 
reserved the celestial regions for monks and friars, or for 
those whose conduct and convervation resembled those of 
monks and friars, has condemned to the infernal all the he¬ 
roes, all the statesmen and lawgivers, all the poets and phi¬ 
losophers of former ages; all those who have invented, im¬ 
proved, or excelled in the arts which contribute to the sub¬ 
sistence, to the conveniency, or to the ornament of human 
life; all the great protectors, instructors, and benefactors of 
mankind; all those to whom our natural sense of praise-wor¬ 
thiness forces us to ascribe the highest merit and most exalted 

' 2 A 


180 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


virtue. Can we wonder that so strange an application of 
this most respectable doctrine should sometimes have exposed 
it to contempt and derision; with those at least who had 
themselves, perhaps, no great taste or turn for the devout 
and contemplative virtues*? 


CHAPTER III. 

Of the Influence and Authority of Conscience . 

BUT though the approbation of his own conscience can 
scarce, upon some extraordinary occasions, content the weak¬ 
ness of man; though the testimony of the supposed impartial 
spectator of the great inmate of the breast, cannot always 
alone support him; yet the influence and authority of this 
principle is, upon all occasions, very great; and it is only by 
consulting this judge within, that we can ever see what re¬ 
lates to ourselves in its proper shape and dimensions; or that 
we can ever make any proper comparison between our own 
interests and those of other people. 

As to the eye of the body, objects appear great or small, 
not so much according to their real dimensions, as according 
to the nearness or distance of their situation; so do they like¬ 
wise to what may be called the natural eye of the mind: and 
we remedy the defects of both these organs pretty much in 
the same manner. In my present situation an immense land¬ 
scape of lawns and woods, and distant mountains, seems to do 
no more than cover the little window which I write by, and 
to be out of all proportion less than the chamber in which I 
am sitting. I can form a just comparison between those 
great objects and the little objects around me, in no other 
way, than by transporting myself, at least in fancy, to a dif¬ 
ferent station, from whence I can survey both at nearly equal 

* See Voltaire.—Vous y grillez sage et docte Platon, 

Divin Homere, eloquent Ciceron, &c. 


Chap. III. 


OF DUTY. 


187 


distances, and thereby form some judgment of their real pro¬ 
portions. Habit and experience have taught me to do this 
so easily and so readiiy, that I am scarce sensible that I do it; 
and a man must be, in some measure, acquainted with the 
philosophy of vision, before he can be thoroughly convinced 
how little those distant objects would appear to the eye, if 
the imagination, from a knowledge of their real magnitudes, 
did not swell and dilate them. 

In the same manner, to the selfish and original passions 
of human nature, the loss or gain of a very small interest of 
our own, appears to be of vastly more importance, excites a 
much more passionate joy or sorrow, a much more ardent 
desire or aversion, than the greatest concern of another with 
whom we have no particular connexion. His interests, as long 
as they are surveyed from his station, can never be put into 
the balance with our own, can never restrain us from doing 
whatever may tend to promote our own, how ruinous soever 
to him. Before we can make any proper comparison of those 
opposite interests, we must change our position. We must 
view them, neither from our own place nor yet from his, 
neither with our own eyes nor yet with his, but from the 
place and with the eyes of a third person, who has no par¬ 
ticular connexion with either, and who judges with impar¬ 
tiality between us. Here, too, habit and experience have 
taught us to do this so easily and so readily, that we are 
scarce sensible that we do it; and it requires, in this case too, 
some degree of reflection, and even of philosophy, to con¬ 
vince us, how little interest we should take in the greatest 
concerns of our neighbour, how little we should be affected 
by whatever relates to him, if the sense of propriety and jus¬ 
tice did not correct the otherwise natural inequality of our 
sentiments. 

Let us suppose that the great empire of China, with all 
its myriads of inhabitants, was suddenly swallowed up by an 
earthquake, and let us consider how a man of humanity in 
Europe, who had no sort of connexion with that part of the 
world, would be affected upon receiving intelligence of this 

2 a 2 


188 


OP THE SEtfSB 


Part III. 


dreadful calnmity. He would, I imagine, first of all, express 
very strongly his sorrow for the misfortune of that unhappy 
people, he would make many melancholy reflections upon 
the precariousness of human life, and the vanity of all the 
labours of man, which could thus be annihilated in a moment* 
He would too, perhaps, if he was a man of speculation, en¬ 
ter into many reasonings concerning the effects which this 
disaster might produce upon the commerce of Europe, and 
the trade and business of the world in general. And when 
all this fine philosophy was over, when all these humane sen¬ 
timents had been once fairly expressed, he would pursue his 
business or his pleasure, take his repose or his diversion, with 
the same ease and tranquillity as if no such accident had hap¬ 
pened. The most frivolous disaster which could befal him¬ 
self would occasion a more real disturbance. If he was to 
lose his little finger to-morrow, he would not sleep to-night; 
but, provided he never saw them, he will snore with the 
most profound security over the ruin of a hundred millions 
of his brethren, and the destruction of that immense multi¬ 
tude seems plainly an object less interesting to him, than this 
paltry misfortune of his own. To prevent, therefore, this 
paltry misfortune to himself, would a man of humanity be 
willing to sacrifice the lives of a hundred million, of his 
brethren, provided he had never seen them? Human nature 
startles with horror at the thought, and the world, in its great¬ 
est depravity and corruption, never produced such a villain 
as could be capable of entertaining it. But what makes this 
difference? when our passive feelings are almost always so 
sordid and so selfish, how comes it that our active principles 
should often be so generous and so noble ? When we are 
always so much more deeply affected by whatever concerns 
ourselves, than by whatever concerns other men; what is it 
which prompts the generous, upon all occasions, and the 
mean upon many, to sacrifice their own interest to the greater 
interests of others? It is not the soft power of humanity, 
it is not that feeble spark of benevolence which Nature has 
lighted up in the human heart, that is thus capable of court- 


Chap. III. 


OF DUTY. 


i$9 


teracting the strongest impulses of self-love. It is a stronger 
power, a more forcible motive, which exerts itself upon such 
occasions. It is reason, principle, conscience, the inhabitant 
of the breast, the man within, the great judge and arbiter of 
our conduct. It is he who, whenever we are about to act so 
as to effect the happiness of others, calls to us, with a voice 
capable of astonishing the most presumptuous of our passions, 
that we are but one of the multitude, in no respect better 
than any other in it; and that when we prefer ourselves so 
shamefully and so blindly to others, we become the proper ob¬ 
jects of resentment, abhorrence, and execration. It is from 
him only that we learn the reaL littleness of ourselves, and 
of whatever relates to ourselves, and the natural misrepresen¬ 
tations of self-love can be corrected only by the eye of this 
impartial spectator. It is he who shows us the propriety of 
generosity and the deformity of injustice*, the propriety of 
resigning the greatest interests of our own, for the yet greater 
interests of others; and the deformity of doing the smallest 
injury to one another, in order to obtain the greatest benefit 
to ourselves. It is not the love of our neighbour, it is not 
the love of mankind, which upon many occasions prompts 
us to the practice of those divine virtues. It is a stronger 
love, a more powerful affection, which generally takes place 
upon such occasions*, the love of what is honourable and no¬ 
ble, of the grandeur, and dignity, and superiority of our owi\ 
characters. 

When the happiness or misery of others depends in any 
respect upon our conduct, we dare not, as self-love might 
suggest to us, prefer the interest of one to that of many. The 
man within immediately calls to us, that we value ourselves 
too much and other people too little, and that, by doing so, 
we render ourselves the proper object of the contempt and 
indignation of our brethren. Neither is this sentiment con¬ 
fined to men of extraordinary magnanimity and virtue. It 
is deeply impressed upon every tolerably good soldier, who 
feels that he would become the scorn of his companions, if 
he coyld be supposed capable of shrinking from danger, or 


190 


OF TIIE SENSE 


Part III. 


of hesitating, either to expose or to throw away his life, when 
the good of the service required it. 

One individual must never prefer himself so much even 
to any other individual, as to hurt or injure that other, in 
order to benefit himself, though the benefit to the one should 
be much greater than the hurt or injury to the other. The 
poor man must neither defraud nor steal from the rich, 
though the acquisition might be much more beneficial to the 
one than the loss could be hurtful to the other. The man 
within immediately calls to him, in this case too, that he is 
no better than his neighbour, and that by his unjust prefer¬ 
ence he renders himself the proper object of the contempt 
and indignation of mankind: as well as of the punishment 
which that contempt and indignation must naturally dispose 
them to inflict, for having thus violated one of those sacred 
rules, upon the tolerable observation of which depend the 
whole security and peace of human society. There is no 
commonly honest man who does not more dread the inward 
disgrace of such an action, the indelible stain which it would 
for ever stamp upon his own mind, than the greatest exter¬ 
nal calamity which, without any fault of his own, could pos¬ 
sibly befal him; and who does not inwardly feel the truth 
of that great stoical maxim, that for one man to deprive a- 
nother unjustly of any thing, or unjustly to promote his own 
advantage by the loss or disadvantage of another, is more 
contrary to nature, than death, than poverty, than pain, than 
all the misfortunes which can affect him, either in his body, 
or in his external circumstances. 

When the happiness or misery of others, indeed, in no 
respect depends upon our conduct, when our interests are 
altogether separated and detached from theirs, so that there 
is neither connexion nor competition between them, we do 
not always think it so necessary to restrain, either our natural 
and, perhaps, improper anxiety about our own affairs, or our 
natural and, perhaps, equally improper indifference about 
those of other men. The most vulgar education teaches us 
to act, upon all important occasions, with some sort of im- 


Chap. III. 


OF DUTY. 


191 


partiality between ourselves and others, and even the ordinary 
commerce of the world is capable of adjusting our active 
principles to some degree of propriety. But it is the most 
artificial and refined education only, it has been said, which 
can correct the inequalities of our passive feelings; and we 
must for this purpose, it has been pretended, have recourse 
to the severest, as well as to the profoundest philosophy. 

Two different sets of philosophers have attempted to teach 
us this hardest of all the lessons of morality. One set have 
laboured to increase our sensibility to the interests of others; 
another, to diminish that to our own. The first would have 
us feel for others as we naturally feel for ourselves. The 
second would have us feel for ourselves as we naturally feel 
for others. Both, perhaps, have carried their doctrines a 
good deal beyond the just standard of nature and propriety. 

The first of those whining and melancholy moralists, 
who are perpetually reproaching us with our happiness, while 
so many of our brethren are in misery*, who regard as im¬ 
pious the natural joy of prosperity, which does not think of 
the many wretches that are at every instant labouring under 
all sorts of calamities, in the langour of poverty, in the agony 
of disease, in the horrors of death, under the insults and op¬ 
pression of their enemies. Commiseration for those miseries 
which we never saw, which we never heard of, but which 
we may be assured are at all times infesting such numbers of 
our fellow-creatures, ought, they think, to damp the plea¬ 
sures of the fortunate, and to render a certain melancholy 
dejection habitual to all men. But first of all, this extreme 
sympathy with misfortunes which we know nothing about, 
seems altogether absurd and unreasonable. Take the whole 
earth at an average, for one man who suffers pain or misery, 
you will find twenty in prosperity and joy, or at least in to¬ 
lerable circumstances. No reason, surely, can be assigned 
why we Should rather weep with the one than rejoice with 


* See Thomson’s Seasons, Winter: 

u Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,” &c. See also Pascal. 


192 


OP THE SENSE 


Fart III. 


the twenty. This artificial commiseration, besides, is not 
only absurd, but seems altogether unattainable; and those 
who affect this character have commonly nothing but a cer¬ 
tain affected and sentimental sadness, which, without reaching 
the heart, serves only to render the countenance and conver¬ 
sation impertinently dismal and disagreeable. And last of 
all, this disposition of mind, though it could be attained, 
would be perfectly useless, and could serve no other purpose 
than to render miserable the person who possessed it. What¬ 
ever interest we take in the fortune of those with whom we 
have no acquaintance or connexion, and who are placed alto¬ 
gether out of the sphere of our activity, can produce only 
anxiety to ourselves, without any manner of advantage to 
them. To what purpose should we trouble ourselves about 
the world in the moon ? All men, even those at the greatest 
distance, are no doubt entitled to our good wishes, and our 
good wishes we naturally give them. But if, notwithstand¬ 
ing, they should be unfortunate, to gives ourselves any anx¬ 
iety upon that account, seems to be no part of our duty. 
That we should be but little interested, therefore, in the 
fortune of those whom we can neither serve nor hurt, and 
who are in every respect so very remote from us, seems 
wisely ordered by Nature; and if it were possible to alter 
in this respect the original constitution of our frame, we 
could yet gain nothing by the change. 

It is never objected to us that we have too little fellow- 
feeling with the joy of success. Wherever envy does not 
prevent it, the favour which we bear to prosperity is rather 
apt to be too great; and the same moralists who blame us 
for want of sufficient sympathy with the miserable, reproach 
us for the levity with which we are too apt to admire and 
almost to worship the fortunate, the powerful, and the rich. 

Among the moralists who endeavour to correct the natural 
inequality of our passive feelings by diminishing our sensi¬ 
bility to what peculiarly concerns ourselves, we may count 
all the ancient sects of philosophers, but particularly the an¬ 
cient Stoics. Man, according to the Stoics, ought to regard 


Chap. III. 


OF DUTY. 


193 


himself, not as something separated and detached, but as a 
citizen of the world, a member of the vast commonwealth of 
nature. To the interest of this great community, he ought 
at all times to be willing that his own little interest should be 
sacrificed. Whatever concerns himself, ought to affect him 
no more than whatever concerns any other equally important 
part of this immense system. We should view ourselves, 
not in the light in which our own selfish passions are apt to 
place us, but in the light in which any other citizen of the 
world would view us. What befals ourselves we should re¬ 
gard as what befals our neighbour, or, what comes to the 
same thing, as our neighbour regards what befals us. “ When 
“ our neighbour,” says Epictetus, “ loses his wife, or his 
“ son, there is nobody who is not sensible that this is a hu- 
C£ man calamity, a natural event altogether according to the 
££ ordinary Course of things; but, when the same thing hap- 
££ pens to ourselves, then we cry out, as if we had suffered 
££ the most dreadful misfortune. We ought, however, to 
££ remember how we were affected when this accident hap* 
££ pened to another, and such as we were in his case, such 
££ ought we to be in our own.” 

Those private misfortunes, for which our feelings are apt 
to go beyond the bounds of propriety, are of two different 
kinds. They are either such as affect us only indirectly, by 
' affecting, in the first place, some other persons who are par¬ 
ticularly dear to us; such as our parents, our children, our 
brothers and sisters, our intimate friends; or they are such 
as affect ourselves immediately and directly, either in our 
body, in our fortune, or in our reputation; such as pain, sick¬ 
ness, approaching death, poverty, disgrace, &c. 

In misfortunes of the first kind, our emotions may, no 
doubt, go very much beyond what exact propriety will admit 
of; but they may likewise fall short of it, and they frequently 
do so. The man who should feel no more for the death or 
distress of his own father, or son, than for those of any other 
man’s father or son, would appear neither a good son nor a 
good father. Such unnatural indifference, far from exciting 

2 K 


194 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


our applause, would incur our highest disapprobation. Of 
those domestic affections, however, some are most apt to 
offend by their excess, and others by their defect. Nature, 
for the wisest purposes, has rendered in most men, perhaps 
in all men, parental tenderness a much stronger affection than 
filial piety. The continuance and propagation of the species 
depend altogether upon the former, and not upon the latter. 
In ordinary cases, the existence and preservation of the child 
depend altogether upon the care of the parents. Those of 
the parents seldom depend upon that of the child. Nature, 
therefore, has rendered the former affection so strong, that it 
generally requires not to be excited, but to be moderated; 
and moralists seldom endeavour to teach us how to indulge, 
but generally how to restrain our fondness, our excessive at¬ 
tachment, the unjust preference which we are disposed to 
give to our own children above those of other people. They 
exhort us, on the contrary, to an affectionate attention to our 
parents, and to make a proper return to them in their old 
age, for the kindness which they had shown to us in our in¬ 
fancy and youth. In the Decalogue we are commanded to 
honour our fathers and mothers. No mention is made of 
the love of our children. Nature had sufficiently prepared 
us for the performance of this latter duty. Men are seldom 
accused of affecting to be fonder of their children than they 
really are. They have sometimes been suspected of display¬ 
ing their piety to their parents with too much ostentation. 
The ostentatious sorrow of widows has, for a like reason, been 
suspected of insincerity. We should respect, could we believe 
it sincere, even the excess of such kind affections; and though 
we might not perfectly approve, we should not severely con¬ 
demn it. That it appears praise-worthy, at least in the eyes 
of those who affect it, the very affectation is a proof. 

Even the excess of those kind affections which are most 
apt to offend by their excess, though it may appear blameable, 
never appears odious. We blame the excessive fondness and 
anxiety of a parent, as something which may, in the end, 
prove hurtful to the child, and which in the mean time, is 


Chap. III. 


OF DUTY. 


195 


excessively inconvenient to the parent; but we easily pardon 
it, and never regard it with hatred and detestation. But the 
defect of this usually excessive affection appears always pecu¬ 
liarly odious. 

The man who appears to feel nothing for his own children, 
but who treats them upon all occasions with unmerited se¬ 
verity and harshness, seems of all brutes the most detestable. 
The sense of propriety, so far from requiring us to eradicate 
altogether that extraordinary sensibility, which we naturally 
feel for the misfortunes of our nearest connexions, is always 
much more offended by the defect, than it ever is by the ex¬ 
cess of that sensibility. The stoical apathy is, in such cases, 
never agreeable, and in all the metaphysical sophisms by which 
it is supported, can seldom serve any other purpose than to 
blow up the hard insensibility of a coxcomb to ten times its 
native impertinence. The poets and romance writers, who 
best paint the refinements and delicacies of love and friend¬ 
ship, and of all other private and domestic affections, Racine 
and Voltaire; Richardson, Maurivaux, and Riccoboni; are, 
in such cases, much better instructors than Zeno, Chrysippus, 
or Epictetus. 

That moderated sensibility to the misfortunes of others, 
which does not disqualify us for the performance of any 
duty; the melancholy and affectionate remembrance of our 
departed friends; the pang , as Gray says, to secret sorrow 
dear; are by no means undelicious sensations. Though they 
outwardly wear the features of pain and grief, they are all 
inwardly stamped with the ennobling characters of virtue and 
self approbation. 

It is otherwise in the misfortunes which affect ourselves 
immediately and directly, either in our body, in our fortune, 
or in our reputation. The sense of propriety is much more 
apt to be offended by the excess, than by the defect of our 
sensibility, and there are but very few cases in which we can 
approach too near to the stoical apathy and indifference. 

That we have very little fellow-feeling with any of the 
passions which take their origin from the body, has already 

2 b 2 


196 


OP THE SENSE 


Part III. 


been observed. That pain which is occasioned by an evident 
cause; such as, the cutting or tearing of the flesh; is, perhaps, 
the affection of the body with which the spectator feels the 
most lively sympathy. The approaching death of his neigh¬ 
bour, too, seldom fails to affect him a good deal. In both 
cases, however, he feels so very little in comparison of what 
the person principally concerned feels, that the latter can 
scarce ever offend the former by appearing to suffer with too 
much ease. 

The mere want of fortune, mere poverty, excites little 
compassion. Its complaints are too apt to be the objects 
rather of contempt than of fellow-feeling. We despise a 
beggar; and, though his importunities may extort an alms 
from us, he is scarce ever the object of any serious commisera¬ 
tion. The fall from riches to poverty, as it commonly oc¬ 
casions the most real distress to the sufferer, so it seldom 
fails to excite the most sincere commiseration in the spectator. 
Though in the present state of society, this misfortune can 
seldom happen without some misconduct, and some very con¬ 
siderable misconduct too, in the sufferer; yet he is almost 
always so much pitied that he is scarce ever allowed to fall 
into the lowest state of poverty; but by the means of his 
friends, frequently by the indulgence of those very creditors 
who have much reason to complain of his imprudence, is 
almost always supported in some degree of decent, though 
humble, mediocrity. To persons under such misfortunes, 
we could, perhaps, easily pardon some degree of weakness; 
but, at the same time, they who carry the flrmest countenance, 
who accommodate themselves with the greatest ease to their 
new situation, who seem to feel no humiliation from the 
change, but to rest their rank in the society, not upon their 
fortune, but upon their character and conduct, are always the 
most approved of, and never fail to command our highest 
and most affectionate admiration. 

As, of all the external misfortunes which can affect an in¬ 
nocent man immediately and directly, the undeserved loss of 
reputation is certainly the greatest; so a considerable degree of 


Chap. III. 


OF DUTY. 


197 


sensibility to whatever can bring on so great a calamity, does 
not always appear ungraceful or disagreeable. We often 
esteem a young man the more, when he resents, though with 
some degree of violence, any unjust reproach that may have 
been thrown upon his character or his honour. The affliction 
of an innocent young lady, on account of the groundless sur¬ 
mises which may have been circulated concerning her con¬ 
duct, appears often perfectly amiable. Persons of an advanced 
age, whom long experience of the folly and injustice of the 
world, has taught to pay little regard, either to its censure 
or to its applause, neglect and despise obloquy, and do not 
even deign to honour its futile authors with any serious re¬ 
sentment. This indifference, which is founded altogether 
on a firm confidence in their own well-tried and well-esta¬ 
blished characters, would be disagreeable in young people, 
who neither can, nor ought to have any such confidence. 
It might in them be supposed to forebode, in their advancing 
years, a most improper insensibility to real honour and in¬ 
famy. 

In all other private misfortunes which affect ourselves im¬ 
mediately and directly, we can very seldom offend by ap¬ 
pearing to be too little affected. We frequently remember 
our sensibility to the misfortunes of others with pleasure and 
satisfaction. We can seldom remember that to our own, 
without some degree of shame and humiliation. 

If we examine the different shades and gradations of weak¬ 
ness and self-command, as we meet with them in common 
life, we shall very easily satisfy ourselves that this control of 
our passive feelings must he acquired, not from the abstruse 
syllogisms of a quibbling dialectic, but from that great dis¬ 
cipline which Nature has established for the acquisition of 
this and of every other virtue; a regard to the sentiments of 
the real or supposed spectator of our conduct. 

A very young child has no self-command; but, whatever 
are its emotions, whether fear, or grief, or anger, it endeav¬ 
ours always, by the violence of its outcries, to alarm, as much 
as it can, the attention of its nurse, or of its parents. While 


198 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


it remains under the custody of such partial protectors, its 
anger is the first and, perhaps, the only passion which it is 
taught to moderate. By noise and threatening they are, for 
their own ease, often obliged to frighten it into good temper; 
and the passion which excites it to attack, is restrained by 
that which teaches it to attend to its own safety. When it 
is old enough to go to school, or to mix with its equals, it 
soon finds that they have no such indulgent partiality. It 
naturally wishes to gain their favour, and to avoid their ha¬ 
tred or contempt. Regard even to its own safety teaches it 
to do so*, and it soons finds that it can do so in no other 
way than by moderating, not only its anger, but all its other 
passions, to the degree which its play-fellows and companions 
are likely to be pleased with. It thus enters into the great 
school of self-command, it studies to be more and more mas¬ 
ter of itself, and begins to exercise over its own feelings a 
discipline, which the practice of the longest life is very seldom 
sufficiently to bring to complete perfection. 

In all private misfortunes, in pain, in sickness, in sorrow, 
the weakest man, when his friend, and still more when a 
stranger visits him, is immediately impressed with the view 
in which they are likely to look upon his situation, Their 
view calls off his attention from his own view; and his breast 
is, in some measure, becalmed the moment they come into 
his presence. This effect is produced instantaneously, and, 
as it were, mechanically; but, with a weak man, it is not of 
long continuance. His own view of his situation immedi¬ 
ately recurs upon him. He abandons himself, as before, to 
sighs and tears, and lamentations; and endeavours, like a 
child that has not yet gone to school, to produce some sort 
of harmony between his own grief and the compassion of 
the spectator, not by moderating the former, but by impor¬ 
tunately calling upon the latter. 

With a man of a little more firmness, the effect is some¬ 
what more permanent. He endeavours, as much as he can, 
to fix his attention upon the view which the company are 
likely to take of his situation. He feels, at the same time, 


Chap. III. 


OF DUTY. 


199 


the esteem and approbation which they naturally conceive 
for him when he thus preserves his tranquillity; and, though 
under the pressure of some recent and great calamity, appears 
to feel for himself no more than what they really feel for him. 
He approves and applauds himself by sympathy with their 
approbation, and the pleasure which he derives from this 
sentiment supports and enables him more easily to continue 
this generous effort. In most cases he avoids mentioning his 
own misfortune; and his company, if they are tolerably well 
bred, are careful to say nothing which can put him in mind 
of it. He endeavours to entertain them, in his usual way, 
upon indifferent subjects, or, if he feels himself strong enough 
to venture to mention his misfortune, he endeavours to talk 
of it, as he thinks they are capable of talking of it, and even 
to feel it no further than they are capable of feeling it. If he 
has not, however, been well inured to the hard discipline of 
self-command, he soons grows weary of this restraint. A 
long visit fatigues him; and, towards the end of it, he is con¬ 
stantly in danger of doing, what he never fails to do the mo¬ 
ment it is over, of abandoning himself to all the weakness of 
excessive sorrow. Modern good manners, which are extreme¬ 
ly indulgent to human weakness, forbid, for some time, the 
the visits of strangers to persons under great family distress, 
and permit those only of the nearest relations and most inti¬ 
mate friends. The presence of the latter, it is thought, will 
impose less restraint than that of the former; and the sufferers 
can more easily accommodate themselves to the feelings of 
those, from whom they have reason to expect a more in¬ 
dulgent sympathy. Secret enemies, who fancy that they are 
not known to be such, are frequently fond of making those 
charitable visits as early as the most intimate friends. The 
weakest man in the world, in this case, endeavours to support 
his manly countenance, and, from indignation and contempt 
of their malice, to behave with as much gaiety and ease as he 
can. 

The man of real constancy and firmness, the wise and just 
man who has been thoroughly bred in the great school of 


200 


OF THE SENSE 


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self-command, in the bustle and business of the world, ex¬ 
posed, perhaps, to the violence and injustice of faction, and 
to the hardships and hazards of war, maintains this controul 
of his passive feelings upon all occasions; and whether in 
solitude or in society, wears nearly the same countenance, 
and is affected very nearly in the same manner. In success 
and in disappointment, in prosperity and in adversity, before 
friends and before enemies, he has often been under the ne¬ 
cessity of supporting this manhood. He has never dared to 
forget for one moment the judgment which the impartial 
spectator would pass upon his sentiments and conduct. He 
has never dared to suffer the man within the breast to be ab¬ 
sent one moment from his attention. With the eyes of this 
great inmate, he has always been accustomed to regard what¬ 
ever relates to himself. This habit has become perfectly 
familiar to him. He has been in the constant practice, and, 
indeed, under the constant necessity, of modelling, or of en¬ 
deavouring to model, not only his outward conduct and be¬ 
haviour, but as much as he can, even his inward sentiments 
and feelings, according to those of this awful and respectable 
judge. He does not merely affect the sentiments of this im¬ 
partial spectator. He really adops them. He almost iden¬ 
tifies himself with, he almost becomes himself that impartial 
spectator, and scarce even feels but as that great arbiter of 
his conduct directs him to feel. 

The degree of the self-approbation with which every 
man, upon such occasions, surveys his own conduct, is higher 
or lower, exactly in proportion to the degree of self-command 
which is necessary in order to obtain that self-approbation. 
Where little self-command is necessary, little self-approbation 
is due. The man who has only scratched his finger, cannot 
much applaud himself, though he should immediately appear 
to have forgot this paltry misfortune. The man who has 
lost his leg by a cannon shot, and who, the moment after, 
speaks and acts with his usual coolness and tranquillity, as 
he exerts a much higher degree of self-command, so he na¬ 
turally feels a much higher degree of self-approbation. With 


Chap. III. 


OF DUTY. 


‘201 

most men, upon such an accident, their own natural view of 
their own misfortune would force itself upon them with such 
a vivacity and strength of colouring, as would entirely efface 
all thought of every other view. They would feel nothing, 
they could attend to nothing, but their own pain and their 
own fear; and not only the judgment of the ideal man within 
the breast, but that of the real spectators who might happen 
to be present, would be entirely overlooked and disregarded. 

The reward which Nature bestows upon good behaviour 
under misfortune, is thus exactly proportioned to the degree 
of that good behaviour. The only compensation she could 
possibly make for the bitterness of pain and distress is thus 
too, in equal degrees of good behaviour, exactly proportioned 
to the degree of that pain and distress. In proportion to the 
degree of the self-command which is necessary in order to 
conquer our natural sensibility, the pleasure and pride of the 
conquest are so much the greater; and this pleasure and pride 
are so great, that no man can be altogether unhappy who 
completely enjoys them. Misery and wretchedness can never 
enter the breast in which dwells complete self-satisfaction; 
and though it may be too much, perhaps, to say, with the 
Stoics, that, under such an accident as that above mentioned, 
the happiness of a wise man is in every respect equal to what 
it could have been under any other circumstances; yet it must 
be acknowledged, at least, that this complete enjoyment of 
his own self-applause, though it may not altogether extin¬ 
guish, must certainly very much alleviate his sense of his own 
sufferings. 

In such paroxysms of distress, if I may be allowed to call 
them so, the wisest and firmest man, in order to preserve 
his equanimity, is obliged, I imagine, to make a considerable 
and even a painful exertion, His own natural feeling of his 
own distress, his own natural view of his own situation, press¬ 
es hard upon him, and he cannot, without a very great ef¬ 
fort, fix his attention upon that of the impartial spectator. 
Both views present themselves to him at the same time. His 
sense of honour, his regard to his own dignity, directs him 

2 c 


202 


OJ? THE SENSE 


Part III* 


to fix his whole attention upon the one view. Plis natural, 
his untaught and undisciplined feelings, are continually calling 
it off to the other. He does not, in this case, perfectly iden¬ 
tify himself with the ideal man within the breast, he does not 
become himself the impartial spectator of his own conduct. 
The different views of both characters exist in his mind se¬ 
parate and distinct from one another, and each directing him 
to a behaviour different from that to which the other directs 
him. When he follows that view Which honour and dignity 
point out to him, Nature does not, indeed, leave him without 
a recompense. He enjoys his own complete self-approbation, 
and the applause of every candid and impartial spectator. 
By her unalterable laws, however, he still suffers*, and the 
recompense which she bestows, though very considerable, 
is not sufficient completely to compensate the sufferings which 
those laws inflict. Neither is it fit that it should. If it did 
completely compensate them, he could, from self-interest, 
have no motive for avoiding an accident which must necessa¬ 
rily diminish his utility both to himself and to society; and 
Nature, from her parental care of both, meant that he should 
anxiously avoid all such accidents. He suffers, therefore, 
and though, in the agony of the paroxysm, he maintains, not 
only the manhood of his countenance, but the sedateness and 
sobriety of his judgment, it requires his utmost and most fa¬ 
tiguing exertions to do so. 

By the constitution of human nature, however, agony can 
never be permanent; and if he survives the paroxysm, he 
soon comes, without any effort, to enjoy his ordinary tran¬ 
quillity. A man with a wooden leg suffers no doubt, and 
foresees that he must continue to suffer during the remainder 
of his life, a very considerable inconveniency. He soon comes 
to view it, however, exactly as every impartial spectator views 
it; as an inconveniency under which he can enjoy all the or¬ 
dinary pleasures both of solitude and of society. He soon 
identifies himself with the ideal man within the breast, he 
soon becomes himself the impartial spectator of his own situa¬ 
tion. He no longer weeps, he no longer laments, he no 


Chap. III. 


OF DUTY. 


203 


longer grieves over it, as a weak man may sometimes do in 
the beginning. The view of the impartial spectator becomes 
so perfectly habitual to him, that, without any effort, without 
any exertion, he never thinks of surveying his misfortune in 
any other view. 

The never-failing certainty with which all men, sooner or 
later, accommodate themselves to whatever becomes their 
permanent situation, may, perhaps, induce us to think that the 
Stoics were, at least, thus far, very nearly in the right: that 
between one permanent situation and another, there was, with 
regard to real happiness, no essential difference: or that, if 
there were any difference, it was no more than just sufficient 
to render some of them the objects of simple choice or pre¬ 
ference; but not of any earnest or anxious desire; and others, 
of simple rejection, as being fit to be set aside or avoided; 
but not of any earnest or anxious aversion. Happiness con¬ 
sists in tranquillity and enjoyment. Without tranquillity 
there can be no enjoyment; and where there is perfect tran¬ 
quillity there is scarce any thing which is not capable of amus¬ 
ing. But in every permanent situation, where there is no 
expectation of change, the mind of every man, in a longer 
or a shorter time, returns to its natural and usual state of 
tranquillity. In prosperity, after a certain time, it falls back 
to that state; in adversity, after a certain time, it rises up to 
it. In the confinement and solitude of the Bastile, after a 
certain time, the fashionable and frivolous Count de Lauzun 
recovered tranquillity enough to be capable of amusing him¬ 
self with feeding a spider. A mind better furnished would, 
perhaps, have both sooner recovered its tranquillity, and 
sooner found, in its own thoughts, a much better amuse¬ 
ment. 

The 'great source of both the misery and disorders of hu¬ 
man life, seems to arise from over-rating the difference be¬ 
tween one permanent situation and another. Avarice over¬ 
rates the difference, between poverty and riches; ambition, 
that between a private and a public station; vain-glory, that 
between obscurity and extensive reputation. The person 

2 c 2 


OF THE SENSU 


Part III. 


204 


under the influence of any of those extravagant passions, is 
not only miserable in his actual situation, but is often disposed 
to disturb the peace of society, in order to arrive at that 
which he so foolishly admires. The slightest observation, 
however, might satisfy him, that, in all the ordinary situations 
of human life, a well-disposed mind may be equally calm, 
equally cheerful, and equally contented. Some of those si¬ 
tuations may, no doubt, deserve to be preferred to others; 
but none of them can deserve to be pursued with that pas¬ 
sionate ardour which drives us to violate the rules either of 
prudence or of justice; or to corrupt the future tranquillity of 
our minds, either by shame from the remembrance of our own 
folly, by by remorse from the horror of our own injustice. 
Wherever prudence does not direct, wherever justice does not 
permit, the attempt to change our situation, the man who 
does attempt it, plays at the most unequal of all games of haz¬ 
ard, and stakes every thing against scarce any thing. What 
the favourite of the king of Epirus said to his master, may be 
applied to men in all the ordinary situations of human life. 
When the King had recounted to him, in their proper order, 
all the conquests which he proposed to make, and had come to 
the last of them; And what does your Majesty propose to do 
then? said the Favourite.—I propose then, said the King, to 
enjoy myself with my friends, and endeavour to be good com¬ 
pany over a bottle.—And what hinders your Majesty from 
doing so now? replied the Favourite. In the most glittering 
and exalted situation that our idle fancy can hold out to us, 
the pleasures from which we propose to derive our real hap¬ 
piness, are almost always the same with those which, in 
our actual, though humble station, we have at all times at 
hand, and in our power. Except the frivolous pleasures of 
vanity and superiority, we may find, in the most humble sta¬ 
tion, where there is only personal liberty, every other which 
the most exalted can afford; and the pleasures of vanity and 
superiority are seldom consistent with perfect tranquillity, the 
principle and foundation of all real and satisfactory enjoy¬ 
ment. Neither is it always certain that, in the splendid si- 


Chap. III. 


OP DUTY. 


205 


tuation which we aim at, those real and satisfactory pleasures 
can be enjoyed with the same security as in the humble one 
which we are so very eager to abandon. Examine the re¬ 
cords of history, recollect what has happened within the circle 
of your own experience, consider with attention what has 
been the conduct of almost all the greatly unfortunate, either 
in private or public life, whom you may have either read of, 
or heard of, or remember; and you will find that the mis¬ 
fortunes of by far the greater part of them have arisen from 
their not knowing when they were well, when it was proper 
for them to sit still and to be contented. The inscription 
Upon the tombstone of the man who had endeavoured to 
mend a tolerable constitution by taking physic; “ I was well , 
« I wished to be better; here 1 am” may generally be applied 
with great justness to the distress of disappointed avarice and 
ambition. 

It may be thought a singular, but I believe it to be a just 
observation, that in the misfortunes which admit of some 
remedy, the greater part of men do not either so readily or 
so universally recover their natural and usual tranquillity, as 
in those which plainly admit of none. In misfortunes of the 
latter kind, it is chiefly in what may be called the paroxysm, 
or in the first attack, that we can discover any sensible differ¬ 
ence between the sentiments and behaviour of the wise and 
those of the weak man. In the end, Time, the great and 
universal comforter, gradually composes the weak man to 
the same degree of tranquillity which a regard to his own 
dignity and manhood teaches the wise man to assume in the 
beginning. The case of the man with the wooden leg is an 
obvious example of this. In the irreparable misfortunes oc¬ 
casioned by the death of children, or of friends and relations, 
even a wise man may for some time indulge himself in some 
degree of moderated sorrow. An affectionate, but weak 
woman, is often, upon such occasions, almost perfectly dis¬ 
tracted. Time, however, in a longer or shorter period, never 
fails to compose the weakest woman to the same degree of 
tranquillity as the strongest man. In all the irreparable cala- 


OP THE SENSE 


Part III. 


L'OS 

mities which affect himself immediately and directly, a wise 
man endeavours, from the beginning, to anticipate and to 
enjoy before-hand, that tranquillity which he foresees the 
course of a few months, or a few years, will certainly restore 
to him in the end. 

In the misfortunes for which the nature of things admits, 
or seems to admit, of a remedy, but in which the means of 
applying that remedy are not within the reach of the sufferer, 
his vain and fruitless attempts to restore himself to his former 
situation, his continual anxiety for their success, his repeated 
disappointments upon their miscarriage, are what chiefly hin¬ 
der him from resuming his natural tranquillity, and frequently 
render miserable, during the whole of his life, a man to whom 
a greater misfortune, but which plainly admitted of no reme¬ 
dy, would not have given a fortnight’s disturbance. In the 
fall from royal favour to disgrace, from power to insignifi¬ 
cancy, from riches to poverty, from liberty to confinement, 
from strong health to some lingering, chronical, and perhaps 
incurable disease, the man who struggles the least, who most 
easily and readily acquiesces in the fortune which has fallen 
to him, very soon recovers his usual and natural tranquillity, 
and surveys the most disagreeable circumstances of his actual 
situation in the same light, or perhaps, in a much less unfa¬ 
vourable light, than that in which the most indifferent spec¬ 
tator is disposed to survey them. Faction, intrigue, and 
cabal, disturb the quiet of the unfortunate statesman. Ex¬ 
travagant projects, visions of gold mines, interrupt the repose 
of the ruined bankrupt. The prisoner, who is continually 
plotting to escape from his confinement, cannot enjoy that 
careless security which even a prison can afford him. The 
medicines of the physician are often the greatest torment of 
the incurable patient. The monk who, in order to comfort 
Johanna of Castile, upon the death of her husband Philip, 
told her of a King, who, fourteen years after his decease, had 
been restored to life again, b.y the prayers of his afflicted 
queen, was not likely by his legendary tale to restore sedate¬ 
ness to the distempered mind of that unhappy Princess. She 


Chap. III. 


OF DUTY. 


207 


endeavoured to repeat the same experiment in hopes of the 
same success*, resisted for a long time the burial of her hus¬ 
band, soon after raised his body from the grave, attended it 
almost constantly herself, and watched, with all the impatient 
anxiety of frantic expectation, the happy moment when her 
wishes were to be gratified by the revival of her beloved 
Philip*. 

Our sensibility to the feelings of others, so far from being 
inconsistant with the manhood of self-command, is the very 
principle upon which that manhood is founded. The very 
same principle or instinct which, in the misfortune of our 
neighbour, prompts us to compassionate his sorrow; in our 
own misfortune, prompts us to restrain the abject and misera¬ 
ble lamentations of our own sorrow.- The same principle or 
instinct which, in his prosperity and success, prompts us to 
congratulate his joy; in our own prosperity and success, 
prompts us to restrain the levity and intemperance of our 
own joy. In both cases, the propriety of our own sentiments 
and feelings seems to be exactly in proportion to the vivacity 
and force with which we enter into and conceive his senti¬ 
ments and feelings. 

The man of the most perfect virtue, the man whom we 
naturally love and revere the most, is he who joins, to the 
most perfect command of his own original and selfish feelings, 
the most exquisite sensibility both to the original and sym¬ 
pathetic feelings of others. The man who, to all the soft, 
the amiable, and the gentle virtues, joins all the great, the 
awful, and the respectable, must surely be the natural and 
proper object of our highest love and admiration. 

The person best fitted by nature for acquiring the former 
of those two sets of virtues, is likewise necessarily best fitted 
for acquiring the latter. The man who feels the most for 
the joys and sorrows of others, is best fitted for acquiring the 
most complete control of his own joys and sorrows. The 
man of the most exquisite humanity, is naturally the most ca- 

* See Robertson’s Charles V. vol, ii. pp. 14 and 15, first edition. 


208 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


pable of acquiring the highest degree of self-command. He 
may not, however, always have acquired it; and it very fre¬ 
quently happens that he has not. He may have lived too 
much in ease and tranquillity. Pie may have never been ex¬ 
posed to the violence of faction, or to the hardships and haz¬ 
ards of war. Pie may have never experienced the insolence 
of his superiors, the jealous and malignant envy of his equals, 
or the pilfering injustice of his inferiors. When, in an ad¬ 
vanced age, some accidental change of fortune exposes him 
to all these, they all make too great an impression upon him. 
He has the disposition which fits him for acquiring the most 
perfect self-command; but he has never had the opportunity 
of acquiring it. Exercise and practise have been wanting; 
and without these, no habit can ever be tolerably established. 
Hardships, dangers, injuries, misfortunes, are the only masters 
under whom we can learn the exercise of this virtue. But 
these are all masters to whom nobody willingly puts himself 
to school. 

The situations in which the gentle virtue of humanity can 
be most happily cultivated, are by no means the same with 
those which are best fitted for forming the austere virtue of 
self-command. The man who is himself at ease, can best 
attend to the distress of others. The man who is himself 
exposed to hardships, is most immediately called upon to at¬ 
tend to, and to controul his own feelings. In the mild sun¬ 
shine of undisturbed tranquillity, in the calm retirement of 
undissipated and philosophical leisure, the soft virtue of hu¬ 
manity flourishes the most, and is capable of the highest im¬ 
provement. But, in such situations, the greatest and no¬ 
blest* exertions of self-command have little exercise. Under 
the boisterous and stormy sky of war and fashion, of public 
tumult and confusion, the sturdy severity of self-command 
prospers the most, and can be the most successfully cultivated. 
But, in such situations, the strongest suggestions of humanity 
must frequently be stifled or neglected; and every such ne¬ 
glect necessarily tends to weaken the principle of humanity. 
As it may frequently be the duty of a soldier not to take, so 


Chap. III. 


OF DUTY. 


209 


it may sometimes be his duty not to give quarter; and the 
humanity of the man who has been several times under the 
necessity of submitting to this disagreeable duty, can scarce 
fail to suffer a considerable diminution. For his own ease, 
he is too apt to learn to make light of the misfortunes 
which he is so often under the necessity of occasioning; and 
the situations which call forth the noblest exertions of self- 
command, by imposing the necessity of violating sometimes 
the property, and sometimes the life of our neighbour, always 
tend to diminish, and too often to extinguish altogether, that 
sacred regard to both, which is the foundation of justice and 
humanity. It is upon this account that we so frequently find 
in the world, men of great humanity, who have little self- 
command, but who are indolent and irresolute, and easily dis¬ 
heartened, either by difficulty or danger, from the most hon¬ 
ourable pursuits; and on the contrary, men of the most per¬ 
fect self-command, whom no difficulty can discourage, no 
danger appal, and who are at all times ready for the most 
daring and desperate enterprises, but who, at the same time, 
seem to be hardened against all sense either of justice or hu¬ 
manity. 

In solitude, we are apt to feel too strongly whatever relates 
to ourselves: we are apt to over-rate the good offices we may 
have done, and the injuries we may have suffered: we are 
apt to be too much elated by our own good, and too much 
dejected by our own bad fortune. The conversation of a 
friend brings us to a better, that of a stranger to a still better 
temper. The man within the breast, the abstract and ideal 
spectator of our sentiments and conduct, requires often to be 
awakened and put in mind of his duty, by the presence of 
the real spectator: and it is always from that spectator, from 
whom we can expect the least sympathy and indulgence, 
that we are likely to learn the most complete lesson of self- 
command. 

Are you in adversity ? Do not mourn in the darkness of 
solitude, do not regulate your sorrow according to the indul¬ 
gent sympathy of your intimate friends; return, as soon 

2 D 


210 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


as possible, to the daylight of the world and of society. 
Live with strangers, with those who know nothing, or care 
nothing about your misfortune; do not even shun the com¬ 
pany of enemies; but give yourself the pleasure of mortifying 
their malignant joy, by making them feel how little you 
are affected by your calamity, and how much you are a- 
bove it. 

Are you in prosperity? Do not confine the enjoyment of 
your good fortune to your own house, to the company of 
your own friends, perhaps of your flatterers, of those who 
build upon your fortune the hopes of mending their own; 
frequent those who are independent of you, who can value 
you only for your character and conduct, and not for your 
fortune. Neither seek nor shun, neither intrude yourself 
into, nor run away from the society of those who were once 
your superiors, and who may be hurt at finding you their 
equal, or, perhaps, even their superior. The impertinence 
of their pride may, perhaps, render their company too disa¬ 
greeable: but if it should not, be assured that it is the best 
company you can possibly keep; and if, by the simplicity of 
your unassuming demeanour, you can gain their favour and 
kindness, you may rest satisfied that you are modest enough, 
and that your head has been in no respect turned by your 
good fortune. 

The propriety of our moral sentiments is never so apt to 
be corrupted, as when the indulgent and partial spectator is 
at hand, while the indifferent and impartial one is at a great 
distance. 

Of the conduct of one independent nation towards another, 
neutral nations are the only indifferent and impartial specta¬ 
tors. But they are placed at so great a distance, that they 
are almost quite out of sight. When two nations are at va¬ 
riance, the citizen of each pays little regard to the sentiments 
which foreign nations may entertain concerning his conduct. 
His whole ambition is to obtain the approbation of his own 
fellow-citizens; and as they are all animated by the same 
hostile passions which animate himself, he can never please 


Chap. III. 


OF DUTY. 


211 


them so much as by enraging and offending their enemies. 
The partial spectator is at hand: the impartial one at a great 
distance. In war and negociation, therefore, the laws of 
justice are very seldom observed. Truth and fair dealing 
are almost totally disregarded. Treaties are violated; and 
the violation, if some advantage is gained by it, sheds scarce 
any dishonour upon the violator. The embassador who dupes 
the minister of a foreign nation, is admired and applauded. 
The just man who disdains either to take or to give any ad¬ 
vantage, but who would think it less dishonourable to give 
than to take one; the man who, in all private transactions, 
would be the most beloved and the most esteemed; in those 
public transactions is regarded as a fool and an ideot, who 
does not understand his business; and he incurs always the 
contempt, and sometimes even the detestation of his fellow- 
citizens. In war, not only what are called the laws of na¬ 
tions are frequently violated, without bringing (among his 
own fellow-citizens, whose judgments he only regards) any 
considerable dishonour upon the violator; but those laws 
themselves are, the greater part of them, laid down with very 
little regard to the plainest and most obvious rules of justice. 
That the innocent, though they have some connexion or de¬ 
pendency upon the guilty (which, perhaps, they themselves 
cannot help), should not, upon that account, suffered to be 
punished for the guilty, is one of the plainest and most obvi ¬ 
ous rules of justice. In the most unjust war, however, it is 
commonly the sovereign or the rulers only who are guilty. 
The subjects are almost always perfectly innocent. When¬ 
ever it suits the conveniency of a public enemy, however, the 
goods of the peaceable citizens are seized both at land and at 
sea; their lands are laid waste, their houses are burnt, and 
they themselves, if they presume to make any resistance, are 
murdered or led into captivity; and all this in the most per¬ 
fect conformity to what are called the laws of nations. 

The animosity of hostile factions, whether civil or eccle¬ 
siastical, is often still more furious than that of hostile nations; 
and their conduct towards one another is often still more 

2 d 2 


212 


0E THE SENSE 


Part III. 


atrocious. What may be called the laws of faction, have often 
been laid down by grave authors with still less regard to the 
rules of justice, than what are called the laws of nations. The 
most ferocious patriot never stated it as a serious question. 
Whether faith ought to be kept with public enemies?— 
Whether faith ought to be kept with rebels? Whether faith 
ought to be kept with heretics? are questions which have 
been often furiously agitated by celebrated doctors both civil 
and ecclesiastical. It is needless to observe, I presume, that 
both rebels and heretics are those unlucky persons, who, 
when things have come to a certain degree of violence, have 
the "misfortune to be of the weaker party. In a nation dis¬ 
tracted by faction, there are, no doubt, always a few, though 
commonly but a very few, who preserve their judgment un¬ 
tainted by the general contagion. They seldom amount 
to more than, here and there, a solitary individual, without 
any influence, excluded, by his own candour, from the con¬ 
fidence of either party, and who, though he may be one of 
the wisest, is necessarily, upon that very account, one of the 
most insignificant men in the society. All such people are 
held in contempt and derision, frequently in detestation, by 
the furious zealots of both parties. A true party-man hates 
and despises candour; and, in reality, there is no vice which 
could so effectually disqualify him for the trade of a party- 
man as that single virtue. The real revered, and impar¬ 
tial spectator, therefore, is, upon no occasion, at a greater 
distance than amidst the violence and rage of contending 
parties. To them it may be said, that such a spectator scarce 
exists any where in the universe. Even to the great Judge 
of the universe, they impute all their own prejudices, and 
often view that Divine Being as animated by all their own 
vindictive and implacable passions. Of all the corrupters of 
moral sentiments, therefore, faction and fanaticism have al¬ 
ways been by far the greatest. 

Concerning the subject of self-command, I shall only 
observe further, that our admiration for the man who, under 
the heaviest and most unexpected misfortunes, continues to 


Chap. IV. 


GP DUTY. 


213 


behave with fortitude and firmness, always supposes that his 
sensibility to those misfortunes is very great, and such as it 
requires a very great effort to conquer or command. The 
man who was altogether insensible to bodily pain, could de¬ 
serve no applause from enduring the torture with the most 
perfect patience and equanimity. The man who had been 
created without the natural fear of death, could claim no merit 
from preserving his coolness and presence of mind in the 
midst of the most dreadful dangers. It is one of the extra¬ 
vagancies of Seneca, that the Stoical wise man was, in this 
respect, superior even to a god; that the security of the god 
was altogether the benefit of nature, which had exempted 
him from suffering; but that the security of the wise man 
was his own benefit, and derived altogether from himself and 
from his own exertions. 

The sensibility of some men, however, to some of the 
objects which immediately affect themselves, is sometimes so 
strong, as to render all self-command impossible. No sense 
of honour can control the fears of the man who is weak 
enough to faint, or to fall into convulsions, upon the approach 
of danger. Whether such weakness of nerves, as it has been 
called, may not, by gradual exercise and proper discipline, 
admit of some cure, may* perhaps, be doubtful. It seems 
certain, that it ought never to be trusted or employed. 




CHAPTER IV. 

Of the Nature of Self-deceit y and of the Origin and Use 
of general Rules . 

IN order to pervert the rectitude of our own judgments 
concerning the propriety of our own conduct, it is not always 
necessary that the real and impartial spectator should be at 
a great distance. When he is at hand, when he is present, 
the violence and injustice of our own selfish passions are 


214* 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


sometimes sufficient to induce the man within the breast to 
make a report very different from what the real circumstances 
of the case are capable of authorising. 

There are two different occasions upon which we examine 
our own conduct, and endeavour to view it in the light in 
which the impartial spectator w T ould view it: first, when we 
are about to act; and secondly, after we have acted. Our 
views are apt to be very partial in both cases; but they are 
apt to be most partial when it is of most importance that they 
should be otherwise. 

When we are about to act, the eagerness of passion will 
seldom allow us to consider what we are doing, with the 
candour of an indifferent person. The violent emotions 
which at that time agitate us, discolour our views of things, 
even when we are endeavouring to place ourselves in the 
situation of another, and to regard the objects that interest 
us in the light in which they will naturally appear to him. 
The fury of our own passions constantly calls us back to our 
own place, where every thing appears magnified and misre¬ 
presented by self-love. Of the manner in which those objects 
would appear to another, of the view which he would take 
of them, we can obtain, if I may say so, but instantaneous 
glimpses, which vanish in a moment, and which, even while 
they last, are not altogether just. We cannot even for that 
moment divest ourselves entirely of the heat and keenness 
with which our peculiar situation inspires us, nor consider 
what we are about to do with the complete impartiality of an 
equitable judge. The passions, upon this account, as father 
Malebranche says, all justify themselves, and seem reasonable 
and proportioned to their objects, as long as we continue to 
feel them. 

When the action is over, indeed, and the passions which 
prompted it have subsided, we can enter more coolly into 
the sentiments of the indifferent spectator. What before 
interested us, is now become almost as indifferent to us as it 
always was to him, and we can now examine our own conduct 
with his candour and impartiality. The man of to-day is no 


Chap. IV. 


OF DUTY. 


215 


longer agitated by the same passions which distracted the 
man of yesterday: and when the paroxysm of emotion, in 
the same manner as when the paroxysm of distress, is fairly 
over, we can identify ourselves, as it were, with the ideal 
man within the breast, and, in our own character, view, as 
in the one case, our own situation, so in the other, our own 
conduct, with the severe eyes of the most impartial spectator. 
But our judgments now are often of little importance in com¬ 
parison of what they were before; and can frequently pro¬ 
duce nothing but vain regret and unavailing repentance; 
without always securing us from the like errors in time to 
■ come. It is seldom, however, that they are quite candid even 
in this case. The opinion which we entertain of our own 
character depends entirely on our judgment concerning our 
past conduct. It is so disagreeable to think ill of ourselves, 
that we often purposely turn away our view from those cir¬ 
cumstances which might render that judgment unfavourable. 
He is a bold surgeon, they say, whose hand does not tremble 
when he performs an operation upon his own person; and 
he is often equally bold who does not hesitate to pull off the 
mysterious veil of self-delusion, which covers from his view 
the deformities of his own conduct. Rather than see our 
own behaviour under so disagreeable an aspect, we too often, 
foolishly and weakly, endeavour to exasperate anew those 
unjust passions which had formerly misled us; we endeavour 
by artifice to awaken our old hatreds, and irritate afresh 
our almost forgotten resentments: we even exert ourselves 
for this miserable purpose, and thus persevere in justice, 
merely because we once were unjust, and because we are a- 
shamed and afraid to see that we were so. 

So partial are the views of mankind with regard to the 
propriety of their own conduct, both at the time of action 
and after it; and so difficult is it for them to view it in the 
light in which any indifferent spectator would consider it. 
But if it was by a peculiar faculty, such as the moral sense is 
supposed to be, that they judged of their own conduct, if they 
were endued with a particular power of perception, which 


226 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


distinguished the beauty or deformity of passions and affec¬ 
tions; as their own passions would be more immediately ex¬ 
posed to the view of this faculty, it would judge with more 
accuracy concerning them, than concerning those of other 
men, of which it had only a more distant prospect. 

This self-deceit, this fatal weakness of mankind, is the 
source of half the disorders of human life. If we saw our¬ 
selves in the light in which others see us, or in which they 
would see us if they knew all, a reformation would generally 
be unavoidable. We could not otherwise endure the sight. 

Nature, however, has not left this weakness, which is 
of so much importance, altogether without a remedy; nor 
has she abandoned us entirely to the delusions of self-love. 
Our continual observations upon the conduct of others, in¬ 
sensibly lead us to form to ourselves certain general rules, 
concerning what is fit and proper either to be done or to be 
avoided. Some of their actions shock all our natural senti¬ 
ments. We hear every body about us express the like de¬ 
testation against them. This still further confirms, and even 
exasperates our natural sense of their deformity. It satisfies 
us that we view them in the proper light, when we see other 
people view them in the same light. We resolve never to 
be guilty of the like, nor ever, upon any account, to render 
ourselves in this manner the objects of universal disapproba¬ 
tion. We thus naturally lay down to ourselves a general 
rule, that all such actions are to be avoided, as tending to 
render us odious, contemptible, or punishable, the objects of 
all those sentiments for which we have the greatest dread 
and aversion. Other actions, on the contrary, call forth our 
approbation, and we hear every body around us express the 
same favourable opinion concerning them. Every body is 
eager to honour and reward them. They excite all those 
sentiments for which we have by nature the strongest desire; 
the love, the gratitude, the admiration of mankind. We be¬ 
come ambitious of performing the like; and thus naturally 
lay down to ourselves a rule of another kind, that every op- 


Chap. IV. OF DUTY. 217 

portunity of acting in this manner is carefully to be sought 
after. 

It is thus that the general rules of morality are formed. 
They are ultimately founded upon experience of what, in par¬ 
ticular instances, our moral faculties, our natural sense of me¬ 
rit and propriety, approve, or disapprove of. We do not origi¬ 
nally approve or condemn particular actions; because, upon 
examination, they appear to be agreeable or inconsistant with 
a certain general rule. The general rule, on the contrary, is 
formed, by finding from experience, that all actions of a cer¬ 
tain kind, or circumstanced in a certain manner, are approved 
or disapproved of. To the man who first saw an inhuman 
murder committed from avarice, envy, or unjust resentment, 
and upon one too that loved and trusted the murderer, who 
beheld the last agonies of the dying person, who heard him, 
with his expiring breath, complain more of the perfidy and 
ingratitude of his false friend, than of the violence which had 
been done to him, there could be no occasion, in order to 
conceive how horrible such an action was, that he should 
reflect, that one of the most sacred rules of conduct was 
what prohibited the taking away the life of an innocent per¬ 
son, that this was a plain violation of that rule, and conse¬ 
quently a very blameable action. His detestation of this 
crime, it is evident, would arise - instantaneously and an¬ 
tecedent to his having formed to himself any such general 
rule. The general rule, on the contrary, which he might 
afterwards form, would be founded upon the detestation 
which he felt necessarily arise in his own breast, at the 
thought of this, and every other particular action of the same 
kind. 

When we read in history or romance, the account of ac¬ 
tions either of generosity or of baseness, the admiration which 
we conceive for the one, and the contempt which we feel 
for the other, neither of them arise from reflecting that there 
are certain general rules which declare all actions of the one 
kind admirable, and all actions of the other contemptible. 
Those general rules, on the contrary, are all formed from 

2 E 


218 


Of the sense 


Part III. 


the experience we have had of the effects which actions of 
all different kinds naturally produce upon us. 

An amiable action, a respectable action, an horrid action, 
are all of them actions which naturally excite for the person 
who performs them, the love, the respect, or the horror of 
the spectator. The general rules which determine what ac¬ 
tions are, and what are not, the objects of each of those sen¬ 
timents, can be formed no other way than by observing what 
actions actually and in fact excite them. 

When these general rules, indeed, have been formed, 
when they are universally acknowledged and established, by 
the concuring sentiments of mankind, we frequently appeal 
to them as to the standards of judgment, in debating concern¬ 
ing the degree of praise or blame that is due to certain ac¬ 
tions of a complicated and dubious nature. They are upon 
these occasions commonly cited as the ultimate foundations 
of what is just and unjust in human conduct; and this cir¬ 
cumstance seems to have misled several very eminent authors, 
to draw up their systems in such a manner, as if they had 
supposed that the original judgments of mankind with regard 
to right and wrong, were formed like the decisions of a court 
of judicatory, by considering first the general rule, and then, 
secondly, whether the particular action under consideration 
fell properly within its comprehension. 

Those general rules of conduct, when they have been fixed 
in our mind by habitual reflection, are of great use in correct¬ 
ing the misrepresentations of self-love concerning what is fit 
and proper to be done in our particular situation. The man 
of furious resentment, if he was to listen to the dictates of 
that passion, would perhaps regard the death of his enemy, 
as but a small compensation for the wrong, he imagines, he 
has received; which, however, may be no more than a very 
slight provocation. But his observations upon the conduct 
of others, have taught him how horrible all such sanguinary 
revenges appear. Unless his education has been very singu¬ 
lar, he has laid it down to himself as an inviolable rule, to 
abstain from them upon all occasions. This rule preserves 


Chap. IV. 


OF OTJTY. 


219 


its authority with him, and renders him ircapable of being 
guilty of such a violence. Yet the fury of his own temper 
may be such, that had this been the first time in which he 
considered such an action, he would undoubtedly have de¬ 
termined it to be quite just and proper, and what every im¬ 
partial spectator would approve of. But that reverence for 
the rule which past experience has impressed upon him, 
checks the impetuosity of his passion, and helps him to cor¬ 
rect the too partial views which self-love might otherwise 
suggest, of what was proper to be done in his situation. If 
he should allow himself to be so far transported by passion 
as to violate this rule, yet, even in this case, he cannot throw 
off altogether the awe and respect with which he has been 
accustomed to regard it. At the very time of acting, at the 
moment in which passion mounts the highest, he hesitates 
and trembles at the thought of what he is about to do: he 
is secretly conscious to himself that he is breaking through 
those measures of conduct which, in all his cool hours, he 
had resolved never to infringe, which he had never seen in¬ 
fringed by others without the highest disapprobation, and of 
which the infringement, his own mind forbodes, must soon 
render him the object of the same disagreeable sentiments. 
Before he can take the last fatal resolution, he is tormented 
with all the agonies of doubt and uncertainty; he is terrified 
at the thought of violating so sacred a rule, and at the same 
time is urged and goaded on by the futy of his desires to violate 
it. He changes his purpose every moment; sometimes he 
resolves to adhere to his principle, and not indulge a passion 
which may corrupt the remaining part of his life with the 
horrors of shame and repentance; and a momentary calm 
takes possession of his breast, from the prospect of that secu¬ 
rity and tranquillity which he will enjoy, when he thus de¬ 
termines not to expose himself to the hazard of a contrary 
conduct. But immediately the passion rouses anew, and 
with fresh fury, drives hjm on to commit what he had the 
instant before resolved to abstain from. Wearied and dis¬ 
tracted with those continual irresolutions, he at length, from 

2 e 2 


220 


OP THE SENSE 


Part III. 


a sort of dispair, makes the last fatal and irrecoverable step; 
but with that terror and amazement with which one flying 
from an enemy throws himself over a precipice, where he is 
sure of meeting with more certain destruction than from any 
thing that pursues him from behind. Such are his senti¬ 
ments even at the time of acting; though he is then, no 
doubt, less sensible of the impropriety of his own conduct 
than afterwards, when his passion being gratified and palled, 
he begins to view what he has done in the light in which 
others are apt to view it; and actually feels, what he had 
only foreseen very imperfectly before, the stings of remorse 
and repentance begin to agitate and torment him. 


—— 


CHAPTER V. 

Of the influence and authority of the general Rules of 
Morality , and that they are justly regarded as 
the Laws of the Deity. 

THE regard to those general rules of conduct, is what is 
properly called a sense of duty, a principle of the greatest 
consequence in human life, and the only principle by which 
the bulk of mankind are capable of directing their actions. 
Many men behave very decently, and through the whole of 
their lives avoid any considerable degree of blame, who yet, 
perhaps, never felt the sentiment upon the propriety of which 
we found our approbation of their conduct, but acted merely 
from a regard to what they saw were the established rules of 
behaviour. The man who has received great benefits from 
another person, may, by the natural coldness of his temper, 
feel but a very small degree of the sentiment of gratitude* 
If he has been virtuously educated, however, he will often 
have been made to observe how odious those actions appear 
which denote a want of this sentiment, and how amiable the 
contrary. Though his heart therefore is not warmed with 


Of DUTY. 


Chap* V. 


221 


any grateful affection, he will strive to act as if it was, and 
will endeavour to pay all those regards and attentions to liis 
patron which the liveliest gratitude could suggest. He will 
visit him regularly; he will behave to him respectfully; he 
will never talk of him but with expressions of the highest 
esteem, and of the many obligations which he owes to him. 
And what is more, he will carefully embrace every opportu¬ 
nity of making a proper return for past services. He may 
do all this too, without any hypocrisy or blameable dissimula¬ 
tion, without any selfish intention of obtaining new favours, 
and without any design of imposing either upon his bene¬ 
factor or the public. The motive of his actions may be no 
other than a reverence for the established rule of duty, a 
serious and earnest desire of acting, in every respect, accord¬ 
ing to the law of gratitude. A wife, in the same manner, 
may sometimes not feel that tender regard for her hus¬ 
band which is suitable to the relation that subsists between 
them. If she has been virtuously educated, however, she 
will endeavour to act as if she felt it, to be careful, officious, 
faithful, and sincere; and to be deficient in none of those at¬ 
tentions which the sentiment of conjugal affection could have 
prompted her to perform. Such a friend, and such a wife, 
are neither of them, undoubtedly, the very best of their 
kinds; and though both of them may have the most serious 
and earnest desire to fulfil every part of their duty, yet they 
will fail in many nice and delicate regards, they will miss many 
opportunities of obliging which they could never have over¬ 
looked if they had possessed the sentiment that is proper to 
their situation. Though not the very first of their kinds, 
however, they are perhaps the second; and if the regard to 
the general rules of conduct has been very strongly impressed 
upon them, neither of them will fail in any very essential 
part of their duty. None but those of the happiest mould 
are capable of suiting, with exact justness, their sentiments 
and behaviour to the smallest difference of situation, and of 
acting upon all occasions with the most delicate and accurate 
propriety. The coarse clay of which the bulk of mankind are 


222 of the sense Part III. 

formed, cannot be wrought up to such perfection. There is 
scarce any man, however, who by discipline, education, and 
example, may not be so impressed with a regard to genera! 
rules, as to act upon almost every occasion with tolerable de¬ 
cency, and through the whole of his life to avoid any consi¬ 
derable degree of blame. 

Without this sacred regard to general rules, there is na 
man whose conduct can be much depended upon. It is this 
which constitutes the most essential difference between a man 
of principle and honour and a worthless fellow. The one ad¬ 
heres, on all occasions, steadily and resolutely to his maxims, 
and preserves through the -whole of his life one even tenour 
of conduct. The other acts variously and accidentally, as 
humour, inclination, or interest chance to be uppermost. 
Nay, such are the inequalities of humour to which all men 
are subject, that without this principle, the man who, in all 
his cool hours, had the most delicate sensibility to the pro¬ 
priety of conduct, might often be led to act absurdly upon 
the most frivolous occasions, and when it was scarce possible 
to assign any serious motive for his behaving in this manner. 
Your friend makes you a visit when you happen to be in a 
humour which makes it disagreeable to receive him: in your 
present mood his civility is very apt to appear an impertinent 
intrusion; and if you were to give away to the views of things 
which at this time occur, though civil in your temper, you 
would behave to him with coldness and contempt. What 
renders you incapable of such a rudeness, is nothing but a 
regard to the general rules of civility and hospitality, which 
prohibit it. That habitual reverence which your former ex¬ 
perience has taught you for these, enables you to act, upon 
all such occasions, with nearly equal propriety, and hinders 
those inequalities of temper, to which all men are subject, 
from influencing your conduct in any very sensible degree. 
But if without regard to these general rules, even the du¬ 
ties of politeness, which are so easily observed, and which one 
can scarce have any serious motive to violate, would yet be 
so frequently violated, what would become of the duties of 


Chap. V. 


OF DUTY. 


223 


justice, of truth, of chastity, of fidelity, which it is so often 
so difficult to observe, and which there may be so many strong 
motives to violate? But upon the tolerable observance of 
these duties, depends the very existence of human society, 
which would crumble into nothing if mankind were not ge¬ 
nerally impressed with a reverence for those important rules 
of conduct. 

This reverence is still further enhanced by an opinion 
which is first impressed by nature, and afterwards confirmed 
by reasoning and philosophy, that those important rules of 
morality are the commands and laws of the Deity, who will 
finally reward the obedient, and punish the transgressors of 
their duty. 

This opinion or apprehension, I say, seems first to be 
impressed by nature. Men are naturally led to ascribe to 
those mysterious beings, whatever they are, which happen, 
in any country, to be the objects of religious fear, all their 
own sentiments and passions. They have no other, they can 
conceive no other to ascribe to them. Those unknown in¬ 
telligences which they imagine but see not, must necessarily 
be formed with some sort of resemblance to those intelli¬ 
gences of which they have experienced. During the igno¬ 
rance and darkness of Pagan superstition, mankind seem to 
have formed the ideas of their divinities with so little deli¬ 
cacy, that they ascribed to them, indiscriminately, all the pas¬ 
sions of human nature, those not excepted which do the 
least honour to our species, such as lust, hunger, avarice, 
envy, revenge. They could not fail, therefore, to ascribe to 
those beings, for the excellence of whose nature they still 
conceive the highest admiration, those sentiments and quali¬ 
ties which are the great ornaments of humanity, and which 
seem to raise it to a resemblance of divine perfection, the 
love of virtue and beneficence, and the abhorrence of vice 
and injustice. The man who was injured, called upon Jupi¬ 
ter to be witness of the wrong that was done to him, and 
could not doubt, but that divine being would behold it with 
the same indignation which would animate the meanest of 


224? 


OP THE SENSE 


Part III. 


mankind, who looked on when injustice was committed. 
The man who did the injury, felt himself to be the proper 
object of the detestation and resentment of mankind; and 
his natural fears led him to impute the same sentiments to 
those awful beings, whose presence he could not avoid, and 
whose power he could not resist. These natural hopes and 
fears, and suspicions, were propagated by sympathy, and con¬ 
firmed by education; and the gods were universally repre¬ 
sented and believed to be the rewarders of humanity and 
mercy, and the avengers of perfidy and injustice. And thus 
religion, even in its rudest form; gave a sanction to the rules 
of morality, long before the age of artificial reasoning and 
philosophy. That the terrors of religion should thus en¬ 
force the natural sense of duty, was of too much importance 
to the happiness of mankind, for nature to leave depend¬ 
ant upon the slowness and uncertainty of philosophical re¬ 
searches. 

These researches, however, when they came to take place, 
confirmed those original anticipations of nature. Upon what¬ 
ever we suppose that our moral faculties are founded, whe¬ 
ther upon a certain modification of reason, upon an original 
instinct, called a moral sense, or upon some other principle 
of our nature, it cannot be doubted, that they were given us 
for the direction of our conduct in this life. They carry 
along with them the most evident badges of this authority, 
which denote that they were set up within us to be the su¬ 
preme arbiters of all our actions, to superintend all our senses, 
passions, and appetites, and to judge how far each of them 
was either to be indulged or restrained. Our moral faculties 
are by no means, as some have pretended, upon a level in 
this respect with the other faculties and appetites of our na¬ 
ture, endowed with no more right to restrain these last, than 
these last are to restrain them. No other faculty or principle 
of action judges of any other. Love does not judge of resent¬ 
ment, nor resentment of love. Those two passions may be 
opposite to one another, but cannot, with any propriety, be 
said to approve or disapprove of another. But it is the pecu- 


Chap. V. 


OP DUTY* 


225 


liar office of those faculties now under our consideration to 
judge, to bestow censure or applause upon all the other prin¬ 
ciples of our nature. They may be considered as a sort of 
senses of which those principles are the objects, livery sense 
is supreme over its own objects. There is no appeal from the 
eye with regard to the beauty of colours, nor from the ear 
with regard to the harmony of sounds, nor from the taste 
with regard to the agreeableness of flavours. Each of those 
senses judges in the last resort of its own objects. Whatever 
gratifies the taste is sweet, whatever pleases the eye is beau¬ 
tiful, whatever soothes the ear is harmonious. The very es¬ 
sence of each of those qualities consists in its being fitted to 
please the sense to which it is addressed. It belongs to our 
moral faculties, in the same manner, to determine when the 
ear ought to be soothed, when the eye ought to be indulged, 
when the taste ought to be gratified, when and how far every 
other principle of our nature ought either to be indulged or 
restrained. What is agreeable to our moral faculties, is fit, 
and right, and proper to be done*, the contrary, wrong, un¬ 
fit, and improper. The sentiments which they approve of, 
are graceful and becoming; the contrary, ungraceful and un¬ 
becoming. The very words, right, wrong, fit, improper, 
graceful, unbecoming, mean only what pleases or displeases 
those faculties. 

Since these, therefore, were plainly intended to be the 
governing principles of human nature, the rules which they 
prescribe are to be regarded as the commands and laws of 
the Deity, promulgated by those vicegerents which he has 
thus set up within us. All general rules are commonly de¬ 
nominated laws: thus the general rules which bodies observe 
in the communication of motion, are called the laws of mo¬ 
tion. But those general rules which our moral faculties ob¬ 
serve in approving or condemning whatever sentiment or 
action is subjected to their examination, may much more 
justly be denominated such. They have a much greater re¬ 
semblance to what are properly called laws, those general 
rules which the sovereign lays down to direct the conduct 

2 F 


226 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


of his subjects. Like them they are rules to direct the free 
actions of men: they are prescribed most surely by a lawful 
superior, and are attended too with the sanction of rewards 
and punishments. Those vicegerents of God within us, never 
fail to punish the violation of them, by the torments of in¬ 
ward shame, and self-condemnation; and on the contrary, 
always reward obedience with tranquillity of mind, with con¬ 
tentment, and self-satisfaction. 

There are innumerable other considerations which serve 
to confirm the same conclusion. The happiness of mankind, 
as well as of all other rational creatures, seems to have been 
the original purpose intented by the Author of Nature, when 
he brought them into existence. No other end seems worthy 
of that supreme wisdom and divine benignity which we ne¬ 
cessarily ascribe to him; and this opinion, which we are led 
to by the abstract consideration of his infinite perfections, is 
still more confirmed by the examination of the works of 
Nature, which seem all intended to promote happiness, and 
to guard against misery. But by acting according to the 
dictates of our moral faculties, we necessarily pursue the 
most effectual means for promoting the happiness of mankind, 
and may therefore be said, in some sense, to co-operate with 
the Deity, and to advance as far as in our power the plan of 
Providence. By acting otherways, on the contrary, we seem 
to obstruct, in some measure, the scheme which the Author 
of Nature has established for the happiness and perfection of 
the world, and to declare ourselves, if I may say so, in some 
measure, the enemies of God. Hence we are naturally en¬ 
couraged to hope for his extraordinary favour and reward in 
the one case, and to dread his vengeance and punishment in 
the other. 

There are besides many other reasons, and many other 
natural principles, which all tend to confirm and inculcate 
the same salutary doctrine. If we consider the general rules 
by which external prosperity and adversity are commonly 
distributed in this life, we shall find, that notwithstanding 
the disorder in which all things appear to be in this world. 


Chap. V. 


OF DUTY. 


227 


yet even here every virtue naturally meets with its proper 
reward, with the recompense which is most fit to encourage 
and promote it*, and this too is surely, that it requires a very 
extraordinary concurrence of circumstances entirely to disap¬ 
point it. What is the reward most proper for encouraging 
industry, prudence, and circumspection? Success in every 
sort of business. And is it possible that in the whole of life 
these virtues should fail of attaining it? Wealth and exter¬ 
nal honours are their proper recompense, and the recompense 
which they can seldom fail of acquiring. What reward is 
most proper for promoting the practice of truth, justice, and 
humanity? The confidence, the esteem, and love of those 
we live with. Humanity does not desire to be great, but iO 
be beloved. It is not in being rich that truth and justice 
would rejoice, but in being trusted and believed, recompenses 
which those virtues must almost always acquire. By some 
very extraordinary and unlucky circumstance, a good man 
may come to be suspected of a crime of which he was alto¬ 
gether incapable, and upon that account be most unjustly ex¬ 
posed for the remaining part of his life to the horror and 
aversion of mankind. By an accident of this kind he may 
be said to lose his all, notwithstanding his integrity and jus¬ 
tice*, in the same manner as a cautious man, notwithstanding 
his utmost circumspection, may be ruined by an earthquake 
or an inundation. Accidents of the first kind, however, are 
perhaps still more rare, and still more contrary to the com¬ 
mon course of things than those of the second; and it still 
remains true, that the practice of truth, justice and humanity, 
is a certain, and almost infallible method of acquiring what 
those virtues chiefly aim at, the confidence and love of those 
we live with. A person may be very easily misrepresented 
with regard to a particular action; but it is scarce possible 
that he should be so with regard to the general tenor of his 
conduct. An innocent man may be believed to have done 
wrong; this, however, will rarely happen. On the contrary, 
the established opinion of the innocence of his manners will 
often lead us to absolve him where he has really been in the 

2 f 2 


228 


OP THE SENSE 


Part III. 


fault, notwithstanding very strong presumptions. A knave, 
in the same manner, may escape censure, or even meet with 
applause, for a particular knavery, in which his conduct is 
not understood. But no man was ever habitually such, with¬ 
out being almost universally known to be so, and without 
being even frequently suspected of guilt, when he was in 
reality perfectly innocent. And so far as vice and virtue can 
be either punished or rewarded by the sentiments and opi¬ 
nions of mankind, they both, according to the common course 
of things, meet even here with something more than exact 
and impartial justice. 

But though the general rules by which prosperity and ad¬ 
versity are commonly distributed, when considered in this 
cool and philosophical light, appear to be perfectly suited to 
the situation of mankind in this life, yet they are by no means 
suited to some of our natural sentiments. Our natural love 
and admiration for some virtues is such, that we should wish 
to bestow on them all sorts of honours and rewards, even 
those which we must acknowledge to be the proper recom¬ 
penses of other qualities, with which those virtues are not al¬ 
ways accompanied. Our detestation, on the contrary, for 
some vices is such, that we should desire to heap upon them 
every sort of disgrace and disaster, those not excepted which 
are the natural consequences of very different qualities. 
Magnanimity, generosity and justice, commands so high a de¬ 
gree of admiration, that we desire to see them crowned with 
wealth, and power, and honours of every kind, the natural 
consequences of prudence, industry, and application; quali¬ 
ties with which those virtues are not inseparably connected. 
Fraud, falsehood, brutality, and violence, on the other hand, 
excite in every human breast such scorn and abhorrence, 
that our indignation rouses to see them possess those advan¬ 
tages which they may in some sense be said to have merited, 
by the diligence and industry with which they are sometimes 
attended. The industrious knave cultivates the soil; the 
indolent good man leaves it uncultivated. Who ought to 
reap the harvest? Who starve, and who live in plenty? 


. Chap. V. 


OF DUTY. 


229 


The natural course of things decides it in favour of the 
knave: the natural sentiments of mankind in favour of the 
man of virtue. Man judges, that the good qualities of the 
one are greatly over-recompensed by those advantages which 
they tend to procure him, and that the omissions of the 
ether are by far too severely punished by the distress which 
they naturally bring upon him; and human laws, the conse¬ 
quences of human sentiments, forfeit the life and the estate 
of the industrious and cautious traitor, and reward, by extra¬ 
ordinary recompenses, the fidelity and public spirit of the 
improvident and careless good citizen. Thus man is by Na¬ 
ture directed to correct, in some measure, that distribution 
of things which herself would otherwise have made. The 
rules which for this purpose she prompts him to follow, are 
different from those which she herself observes. She be¬ 
stows upon every virtue, and upon every vice, that precise 
reward or punishment which is best fitted to encourage the 
one, or to restrain the other. She is directed by this sole 
consideration, and pays little regard to the different degrees 
of merit and demerit, which they may seem to possess in the 
sentiments and passions of man. Man, on the contrary, pays 
regard to this only, and would endeavour to render the state 
of every virtue precisely proportioned to that degree of love 
and esteem, and of every vice to that degree of contempt 
and abhorrence, which he himself conceives for it. The 
rules which she follows are fit for her, those which he fol¬ 
lows for him: but both are calculated to promote the same 
great end, the order of the world, and the perfection and 
happiness of human nature. 

But though man is thus employed to alter that distribution 
of things which natural events would make, if left to them¬ 
selves; though, like the gods of the poets, he is perpetually 
interposing, by extraordinary means, in favour of virtue, and 
in opposition to vice, and, like them, endeavours to turn away 
the arrow that is aimed at the head of the righteous, but to 
accelerate the sword of destruction that is lifted up against 
the wicked; yet he is by no means able to render the fortune 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


25 0 

of either quite suitable to his own sentiments and wishes. 
The natural course of things cannot be entirely controlled by 
the impotent endeavours of man: the current is too rapid and 
too strong for him to stop it; and though the rules which 
direct it appear to have been established for the wisest and 
best purposes, they sometimes produce effects which shock 
all his natural sentiments. That a great combination of men 
should prevail over a small one; that those who engage in 
an enterprise with fore-thought and all necessary preparation, 
should prevail over such as oppose them without any; and 
that every end should be acquired by those means only which 
Nature has established for acquiring it, seems to be a rule 
not only necessary and unavoidable in itself, but even useful 
and proper for rousing the industry and attention of mankind. 
Yet when, in consequence of this rule, violence and artifice 
prevail over sincerity and justice, what indignation does it 
not excite in the breast of every human spectator? What 
sorrow and compassion for the sufferings of the innocent, 
and what furious resentment against the success of the op¬ 
pressor? We are equally grieved and enraged at the wrong 
that is done, but often find it altogether out of our power to 
redress it. When we thus despair of finding any force uport 
earth which can check the triumph of injustice, we naturally 
appeal to heaven, and hope that the great Author of our na¬ 
ture will himself execute hereafter, what all the principles 
which he has given us for the direction of our conduct, 
prompts us to attempt even here; that he will complete the 
plan which he himself has thus taught us to begin; and will, 
in a life to come, render to every one according to the 
works which he has performed in this world. And thus we 
are led to the belief of a future state, not only by the weak¬ 
nesses, by the hopes and fears of human nature, but by the 
noblest and best principles which belong to it, by the love of 
virtue, and by the abhorrence of vice and injustice. 

f< Does it suit the greatness of God,” says the eloquent 
and philosophical bishop of Clermont, with that passionate 
and^ exaggerating force of imagination, which seems some- 


Chap. V. 


OF DUTY. 


231 


times to exceed the bounds of decorum; « does it suit the 
“ greatness of God, to leave the world which he has created 
u in so universal a disorder? To see the wicked prevail al- 
“ most always over the just; the innocent dethroned by the 
4( usurper; the father become the victim of the ambition of 
u an unnatural son; the husband expiring under the stroke 
u of a barbarous and faithless wife? From the height of his 
“ greatness ought God to behold those melancholy events as 
i( a fantastical amusement, without taking any share in them? 
u Because he is great, should he be weak, or unjust, or bar- 
“ barous? Because men are little, ought they to be allowed 
u either to be dissolute without punishment, or virtuous with- 
u out reward? O God? if this is the character of your Su- 
<c preme Being; if it is you whom we adore under such 
“ dreadful ideas; I can no longer acknowledge you for my 
“ father, for my protector, for the comforter of my sorrow, 
i( the support of my weakness, the rewarder of my fidelity. 
t( You would then be no more than an indolent and fantastical 
<< tyrant, who sacrifices mankind to his insolent vanity, and 
(f who has brought them out of nothing, only to make them 
(( serve for the sport of his leisure and of his caprice.” 

When the general rules which determine the merit and 
demerit of actions, come thus to be regarded as the laws of 
an All-powerful Being, who watches over our conduct, and 
who, in a life to come, will reward the observance, and pu¬ 
nish the breach of them; they necessarily acquire a new sa¬ 
credness from this consideration. That our regard to the 
will of the Deity ought to be the Supreme rule of our con¬ 
duct, can be doubted of by nobody who believes his existence. 
The very thought of disobedience appears to involve in it 
the most shocking impropriety. How vain, how absurd 
would it be for a man, either to oppose or to neglect the 
commands that were laid upon him by Infinite Wisdom, and 
Infinite Power! How unnatural, how impiously ungrateful 
not to reverence the precepts that were prescribed to him by 
the infinite goodness of his Creator, even though no punish¬ 
ment was to follow their violation! The sense of propriety 


232 


OF TIIE SENSE 


Part III. 


too, is here well supported by the strongest motives of self- 
interest. The idea that, however we may escape the observ¬ 
ation of man, or to be placed above the reach of human pu¬ 
nishment, yet we are always acting under the eye, and ex¬ 
posed to the punishment of God, the great avenger of in¬ 
justice, is a motive capable of restraining the most headstrong 
passions, with those at least who, by constant reflection, have 
rendered it familiar to them. 

It is in this manner that religion enforces the natural 
sense of duty; and hence it is, that mankind are generally 
disposed to place great confidence in the probity of those 
who seem deeply impressed with religious sentiments. Such 
persons, they imagine, act under an additional tie, besides 
those which regulate the conduct of other men. The regard 
to the propriety of action, as well as to the reputation, the 
regard to the applause of his own breast, as well as to that of 
others, are motives which they suppose have the same influ¬ 
ence over the religious man, as over the man of the world. 
But the former lies under another restraint, and never acts 
deliberately but as in the presence of that Great Superior 
who is finally to recompense him according to his deeds. 
A greater trust is reposed, upon this account, in the regu¬ 
larity and exactness of his conduct. And wherever the 
natural principles of religion are not corrupted by the fac¬ 
tious and party zeal of some worthless cabal; wherever the 
first duty which it requires, is to fulfil all the obligation of 
morality; wherever men are are not taught to regard frivol¬ 
ous observances, as more immediate duties of religion, than 
acts of justice and beneficence; and to imagine, that by sa¬ 
crifices, and ceremonies, and vain supplications, they can 
bargain with the Deity for fraud, and perfidy, and violence, 
the world undoubtedly judges right in this respect; and just¬ 
ly places a double confidence in the rectitude of the religious 
man’s behaviour. 


Chap. VI. 


OK DUTY. 


233 


CHAPTER VI. 

hi what cases the Sense of Duty ought to he the sole principle 
of our Conduct; and in what ^cases it ought to 
concur with other motives . 

RELIGION affords such strong motives to the practice of 
virtue, and guards us by such powerful restraints from the 
temptations of vice, that many have been led to suppose, that 
religious principles were the sole laudable motives of action. 
"VVe ought neither, they said, to reward from gratitude, nor 
punish from resentment; we ought neither to protect the 
helplessness of our children, nor afford support to the infir¬ 
mities of our parents, from natural affection. All affections 
for particular objects ought to be extinguished in our breast, 
and one great affection take the place of all others, the love 
of the Deity, the desire of rendering ourselves agreeable to 
him, and of directing our conduct, in every respect, according 
to his will. We ought not to be grateful from gratitude, we 
ought not to be charitable from humanity, we ought not to 
be public-spirited from the love of our country, nor generous 
and just from the love of mankind. The sole principle and 
motive of our conduct in the performance of all those differ¬ 
ent duties, ought to be a sense that God has commanded us 
to perform them. I shall not at present take time to exam¬ 
ine this opinion particularly; I shall only observe, that we 
should not have expected to have found it entertained by any 
sect, who professed themselves of a religion in which, as it is 
the first precept to love the Lord our God with all our heart, 
with all our soul, and with all our strength, so it is the second 
to love our neighbour as we love ourselves; and we love our¬ 
selves surely for our own sakes, and not merely because we 
are commanded to do so. That the sense of duty should be 
the sole principle of our conduct, is nowhere the precept of 
Christianity; but that it should be the ruling and the go- 

2 G 


234 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


verning one, as philosophy, and as, indeed, common sense, 
directs. 

It may be a question, however, in what cases our actions 
ought to arise chiefly or entirely from a sense of duty, or 
from a regard to general rules; and in what cases some other 
sentiment or affection ought to concur, and have a principal 
influence. 

The decision of this question, which cannot, perhaps, be 
given with any very great accuracy, will depend upon two 
different circumstances; first, upon the natural agreeableness 
or deformity of the sentiment or affection which would prompt 
us to any action independent of all regard to general rules; 
and, secondly, upon the precision and exactness, or the loose¬ 
ness and inaccuracy, of the general rules themselves, 

I. First, I say, it will depend upon the natural agreeable¬ 
ness or deformity of the affection itself, how far our actions 
ought to arise from it, or entirely proceed from a regard to 
the general rule. 

All those graceful and admired actions, to which the be¬ 
nevolent affections would prompt us, ought to proceed as 
much from the passions themselves, as from any regard to 
the general rules of conduct. A benefactor thinks himself 
but ill requited, if the person upon whom he has bestowed 
his good offices, repays them merely from a cold sense of 
duty, and without any affection to his person. A husband 
is dissatisfied with the most obedient wife, when he imagines 
her conduct is animated by no other principle besides her 
regard to what the relation she stands in requires. Though 
a son should fail in none of the offices of filial duty, yet if he 
wants that affectionate reverence which it so well becomes 
him to feel, the parent may justly complain of his indifference. 
Nor could a son be quite satisfied with a parent who, though 
he performed all the duties of his situation, had nothing of 
that fatherly fondness which might have been expected from 
him. With regard to all such benevolent and social affec¬ 
tions, it is agreeable to see the sense of duty employed rather 
to restrain than to enliven them, rather to hinder us from 


Chap. VI. 


OF DUTY. 


235 


doing too much, than to prompt us to do what we ought. 
It gives us pleasure to see a father obliged to check his own 
fondness, a friend obliged to set bounds to his natural genero¬ 
sity, a person who has received a benefit, obliged to restrain 
the too sanguine gratitude of his own temper. 

The contrary maxim takes place with regard to the male¬ 
volent and unsocial passion. We ought to reward from the 
gratitude and generosity of our own hearts, without any re¬ 
luctance, and without being obliged to reflect how great the 
propriety of rewarding: but we ought always to punish with 
reluctance, and more from a sense of the propriety of punish¬ 
ing, than from any savage disposition to revenge. Nothing 
is more graceful than the behaviour of the man who appears 
to resent the greatest injuries, more from a sense that they 
deserve, and are the proper objects of resentment, than from 
feeling himself the furies of that disagreeable passion; who, 
like a judge, considers only the general rule, which deter¬ 
mines what vengeance is due for each particular offence; who, 
in executing that rule, feels less for what himself has suffered, 
than for what the offender is about to suffer; who, though 
in wrath, remembers mercy, and is disposed to interpret the 
rule in the most gentle and favourable manner, and to allow 
all the alleviations which the most candid humanity could, 
consistently with good sense, admit of. 

As the selfish passions, according to what has formerly been 
observed, hold, in other respects, a sort of middle place, be¬ 
tween the social and unsocial affections, so do they likewise in 
this. The pursuits of the objects of private interest, in all 
common, little, and ordinary cases, ought to flow rather from 
a regard to the general rules which prescribe such conduct, 
than from any passion for the objects themselves; but upon 
more important and extraordinary occasions, we should be 
awkward, insipid, and ungraceful, if the objects themselves 
did not appear to animate us with a considerable degree of 
passion. To be anxious, or to be laying a plot either to gain 
or to save a single shilling, would degrade the most vulgar 
tradesman in the opinion of all his neighbours. Let his cir- 

2 G 2 


236 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III* 


cumstances be ever so mean, no attention to any such small 
matters, for the sake of the things themselves, must appear 
in his conduct. His situation may require the most severe 
ceconomy, and the most exact assiduity: but each particular 
exertion of that ceconomy and assiduity must proceed, not so 
much from a regard for the particular saving or gain, as for 
the general rule which to himself prescribes, with the utmost 
rigour, such a tenor of conduct. His parsimony to-day must 
not arise from a desire of the particular three-pence which he 
will save by it, nor his attendance in his shop from a passion 
for a particular ten-pence which he will acquire by it: both 
the one and the other ought to proceed solely from a regard 
to the general rule, which prescribes, with the most unrelent¬ 
ing severity, this plan of conduct to all persons in his way of 
life. In this consists the difference between the character of 
a miser and that of a person of exact oeconomy and assiduity. 
The one is anxious about small matters for their own sake; 
the other attends to them only in consequence of the scheme 
of life which he has laid down to himself. 

It is quite otherwise with regard to the more extraordin¬ 
ary and important objects of self-interest. A person appears 
mean-spirited, who does not pursue these with some degree 
of earnestness for their own sake. We should despise a 
prince who was not anxious about conquering or defending 
a province. We should have very little respect for a private 
gentleman who did not exert himself to gain an estate, or 
even a considerable office, when he could acquire them with¬ 
out either meanness or injustice. A member of parliament 
who shews no keenness about his own election, is abandoned 
by his friends, as altogether unworthy of their attachment. 
Even a tradesman is thought a poor-spirited fellow among 
his neighbours, who dose not bestir himself to get what they 
call an extraordinary job, or some uncommon advantage. 
This spirit and keenness constitutes the difference between 
the man of enterprise and the man of dull regularity. Those 
great objects of self-interest, of which the loss or acquisition 
quite changes the rank of the person, are the objects of the 


Chap. VI. 


OP DUTY. 


OQ 1 * 
OO i 

passion properly called ambition; a passion, which when it 
keeps within the bounds of prudence and justice, is always 
admired in the world, and has even sometimes a certain irre¬ 
gular greatness, which dazzles the imagination, when it passes 
the limits of both these virtues, and is not only unjust but 
extravagant. Hence the general admiration for heroes and 
conquerors, and even for statesmen, whose projects have been 
very daring and extensive, though altogether devoid of jus¬ 
tice; such as those of the Cardinals of Richlieu and of Retz. 
The objects of avarice and ambition differ only in their great¬ 
ness. A miser is as furious about a half-penny, as a man of 
ambition about the conquest of a kingdom. 

II. Secondly, I say, it will depend partly upon the preci¬ 
sion and exactness, or the looseness and inaccuracy of the 
general rules, themselves, how far our conduct ought to pro¬ 
ceed entirely from a regard to them. 

The general rules of almost all the virtues, the general 
rules which determine what are the offices of prudence, of 
charity, of generosity, of gratitude, of friendship, are in many 
respects loose and inaccurate, admit of many exceptions, and 
require so many modifications, that is scarce possible to regu¬ 
late our conduct entirely by a reward to them. The common 
proverbial maxims of prudence, being founded in universal ex¬ 
perience, are perhaps the best general rules which can be 
given about it. To affect, however, a very strict and literal 
adherence to them would evidently be the most absurd and 
ridiculous pedantry. Of all the virtues I have just now men¬ 
tioned, gratitude is that, perhaps, of which the rules are the 
most precise, and admit of the fewest exceptions. That as 
soon as we can we should make a return of equal, and if pos¬ 
sible of superior value to the services we have received, would 
seem to be a pretty plain rule, and one which admitted of 
scarce any exceptions. Upon the most superficial examina¬ 
tion, however, this rule will appear to be in the highest de¬ 
gree loose and inaccurate, and to admit of ten thousand ex¬ 
ceptions. If your benefactor attended you in your sickness, 
ought you to attend him in his? or can you fulfil the obli- 


238 


OE TIIE SENSE 


Part III. 


gation of gratitude, by making a return of a different kind? 
If you ought to attend him, how long ought you to attend 
him ? The same time which he attended you, or longer, and 
how much longer? If your friend lent you money in your 
distress, ought you to lend him money in his ? How much 
ought you to lend him? When ought you to lend him? 
Now, or to-morrow, or next month? And for how long a 
time? It is evident, that no general rule can be laid down, 
by which a precise answer can, in ail cases, be given to any 
of these questions. The difference between his character 
and yours, between his circumstances and yours, may be such, 
that you may be perfectly grateful, and justly refuse to lend 
him a half-penny: and, on the contrary, you may be willing 
to lend, or even to give him ten times the sum which he 
lent you, and yet justly be accused of the blackest ingratitude, 
and of not having fulfilled the hundredth part of the obliga¬ 
tion you lie under. As the duties of gratitude, however, are 
perhaps the most sacred of all those which the beneficent 
virtues prescribe to us, so the general rules which determine 
them are, as I said before, the most accurate. Those which 
ascertain the action required by friendship, humanity, hos¬ 
pitality, generosity, are still more vague and indeterminate. 

There is, however, one virtue of which the general rules 
determine with the greatest exactness every external action 
which it requires. This virtue is justice. The rules of jus¬ 
tice are accurate in the highest degree, and admit of no ex¬ 
ceptions or modifications, but such as may be ascertained as 
accurately as the rules themselves, and which generally, in¬ 
deed, flow from the very same principles with them. If I 
owe a man ten pounds, justice requires that I should precisely 
pay him ten pounds, either at the time agreed upon, or when 
he demands it. What I ought to perform, how much I ought 
to perform, when and where I ought to perform it, the whole 
nature and circumstances of the action prescribed, are all of 
them precisely fixt and determined, Though it may be awk¬ 
ward and pedantic, therefore, to affect too strict an adher¬ 
ence to the common rules of prudence or generosity, there 


Chap. VI. 


OF DUTY. 


239 


is no pedantry in sticking fast by the rules of justice. On 
the contrary, the most sacred regard is due to them; and the 
actions which this virtue requires are never so properly per¬ 
formed, as whon the chief motive for performing them is a 
reverential and religious regard to those general rules which 
require them. In the practice of the other virtues, our con¬ 
duct should rather be directed by a certain idea of propriety, 
by a certain taste for a particular tenor of conduct, than by 
any regard to a precise maxim or rule; and we should con¬ 
sider the end and foundation of the rule, more than the rule 
itself. But it is otherwise with regard to justice: the man 
who in that refines the least, and adheres with the most ob¬ 
stinate stedfastness to the general rules themselves, is the 
most commendable, and the most to be depended upon. 
Though the end of the rules of justice be, to hinder us from 
hurting our neighbour, it may frequently be a crime to vio¬ 
late them, though we could pretend, with some pretext of 
reason, that this particular violation could do no hurt. A 
man often becomes a villain the moment he begins, even in 
his own heart, to chicane in this manner. The moment he 
thinks of departing from the most staunch and positive ad¬ 
herence to what those inviolable precepts prescribe to him, 
he is no longer to be trusted, and no man can say what de¬ 
gree of guilt he may not arrive at. The thief imagines he 
does no evil, when he steals from the rich, what he supposes 
they may easily want, and what possibly they may never 
even know has been stolen from them. The adulterer imag¬ 
ines he does no evil, when he corrupts the wife of his friend, 
provided he covers his intrigue from the suspicion of the hus¬ 
band, and does not disturb the peace of the family. When 
once we begin to give way to such refinements, there is no 
enormity so gross of which we may not be capable. 

The rules of justice may be compared to the rules of gram¬ 
mar; the rules of the other virtues, to the rules which critics 
lay down for the attainment of what is sublime and elegant 
in composition. The one, are precise, accurate, and indis¬ 
pensable. The other, are loose, vague, and indeterminate. 


OF THE SENSE 


Part III. 


240 

and present us rather with a general idea of the perfection 
we ought to aim at, than afford us any certain and infallible 
directions for acquiring it. A man may learn to write gram¬ 
matically by rule, with the most absolute infallibility; and so, 
perhaps, he may be taught to act justly. But there are no 
rules whose observance will, infallibly lead us to the attainment 
of elegance or sublimity in writing: though there are some 
which may help us, in some measure, to correct and ascertain 
the vague ideas which we might otherwise have entertained of 
those perfections. And there are no rules by the knowledge 
of which we can infallibly be taught to act upon all occasions 
with prudence, and just magnanimity, or proper beneficence: 
though there are some which may enable us to correct and 
ascertain, in several respects, the imperfect ideas which we 
might otherwise have entertained of those virtues. 

It may sometimes happen, that with the most serious and 
earnest desire of acting so as to deserve approbation, we may 
mistake the proper rules of conduct, and thus be misled by 
that very principle which ought to direct us. It is in vain 
to expect, that in this case mankind should entirely approve 
of our behaviour. They cannot enter into that absurd idea 
of duty which influenced us, nor go along with any of the ac¬ 
tions which follow from it. There is still, however, something 
respectable in the character and behaviour of one who is thus 
betrayed into vice, by a wrong sense of duty, or by what is 
called an erroneous conscience. How fatally soever he may 
be misled by it, he is still, with the very generous and humane, 
more the object of commiseration than of hatred or resent¬ 
ment. They lament the weakness of human nature, which 
exposes us to such unhappy delusions, even while we are 
most sincerely labouring after perfection, and endeavouring 
to act according to the best principle which can possibly di¬ 
rects us. False notions of religion are almost the only causes 
which can occasion any very gross perversion of our natural 
sentiments in this way; and that principle which gives the 
greatest authority to the rules of duty, is alone capable of 
distorting our ideas of them in any considerable degree. In 


Chap. IV. of duty. 241 

all other cases common sense is sufficient to direct us, if not 
to the most exquisite propriety of conduct, yet to some¬ 
thing which is not very far from it*, and provided we are in 
earnest desirous to do well, our behaviour will always, upon 
the whole, be praise-worthy. That to obey the will of the 
Deity, is the first rule of duty, all men are agreed. But 
concerning the particular commandments which that will may 
impose upon us, they differ widely from one another. In 
this, therefore, the greatest mutual forbearance and tolera¬ 
tion is due; and though the defence of society requires that 
crimes should be punished, from whatever motives they pro¬ 
ceed, yet a good man will always punish them with reluc¬ 
tance, when they evidently proceed from false notions of re¬ 
ligious duty. He will never feel against those who commit 
them that indignation which he feels against other criminals, 
but will rather regret, and sometimes even admire their un¬ 
fortunate firmness and magnanimity, at the very time that 
he punishes their crime. In the tragedy of Mahomet, one 
of the finest of Mr. Voltaire’s, it is well represented, what 
ought to be our sentiments for crimes which proceed from 
such motives. In that tragedy, two young people of differ¬ 
ent sexes, of the most innocent and virtuous dispositions, 
and without any other weakness except what endears them 
the more to us, a mutual fondness for one another, are in¬ 
stigated by the strongest motives of a false religion, to com¬ 
mit a horrid murder, that shocks all the principles of human 
nature. A venerable old man, who had expressed the most 
tender affection for them both, for whom, notwithstanding 
he was the avowed enemy of their religion, they had both 
conceived the highest reverence and esteem, and who was 
in reality their father, though they did not know him to be 
such, is pointed out to them as a sacrifice which God had ex¬ 
pressly required at their hands, and they are commanded to 
kill him. While they are about executing this crime, they 
are tortured with all the agonies which can arise from the 
struggle between the idea of the indispensableness of religious 
duty on the one side, and compassion, gratitude, reverence 

2 H 


2V2 


OF THfi SENSE 


Part. III. 


for the age, and love for the humanity and virtue of the per¬ 
son whom they are going to destroy, on the other. The re¬ 
presentation of this exhibits one of the most interesting, and 
perhaps the most instructive spectacle that was ever intro¬ 
duced upon any theatre. The sense of duty, however, at last 
prevails over all the amiable weaknesses of human nature. 
They execute the crime imposed upon them; but immediate¬ 
ly discover their error, and the fraud which had deceived 
them, and are distracted with horror, remorse, and resent¬ 
ment. Such as are our sentiments for the unhappy Seid and 
Palmira, such ought we to feel for every person who is in 
this manner misled by religion, when we are sure that it is 
really religion which misleads him, and not the pretence of 
it, which is made a cover to some of the worst of human 
passions. 

As a person may act wrong by following a wrong sense of 
duty, so nature may sometimes prevail, and lead him to act 
right in opposition to it. We cannot in this case be displeased 
to see that motive prevail, which we think ought to prevail, 
though the person himself is so weak as to think otherwise. 
As his conduct, however, is the effect of weakness, not prin¬ 
ciple, we are far from bestowing upon it any thing that ap¬ 
proaches to complete approbation. A bigotted Roman Ca¬ 
tholic, who, during the massacre of St. Bartholomew, had 
been so overcome by compassion, as to save some unhappy 
Protestants, whom he thought it his duty to destroy, would 
not seem to be entitled to that high applause which we should 
have bestowed upon him, had he exerted the same generosity 
with complete self-approbation. We might be pleased with 
the humanity of his temper, but we should still regard him 
with a sort of pity which is altogether inconsistent with the 
admiration that is due to perfect virtue. It is the same case 
with all the other passions. We do not dislike to see them 
exert themselves properly, even when a false notion of duty 
would direct the person to restrain them. A very devout 
Quaker, who upon being struck upon one cheek, instead of 
turning up the other, should so far forget his literal interpre- 


Chap. IV. 


OF DUTY. 


243 


tation of our Saviour’s precept, as to bestow some good dis¬ 
cipline upon the brute that insulted him, would not be disa¬ 
greeable to us. We should laugh and be diverted with his 
spirit, and rather like him the better for it. But we should 
by no means regard him with that respect and esteem which 
would seem due to one who, upon a like occasion, had acted 
properly from a just sense of what was proper to be done. 
No action can properly be called virtuous, which is not ac¬ 
companied with the sentiment of self-approbation. 


THE 


THEORY 

O F 

MORTAL SEJVTIMEJVTS . 

PART IV. 

Of the Effect of Utility upon the Sentiment 
of Approbation. 

Consisting of one Section. 

— 

CHAPTER I. 

Of the Beauty \which the appearance of Utility bestows upon 
all the productions of Art, and of the extensive 
influence of this species of Beauty 


That utility is one of the principle scources of beauty has 
been observed by every body, who has considered with any 
attention what constitutes the nature of beauty. The conve- 
niency of a house gives pleasure to the spectator as well as 
its regularity, and he is as much hurt when he observes the 
contrary defect, as when he sees the correspondent windows 
of different forms, or the door not placed exactly in the mid¬ 
dle of the building. That the fitness of any system or machine 


Chap. I. 


TI1E EFFECT OF UTILITY. 


245 

to produce the end for which it was intended, bestows a cer¬ 
tain propriety and beauty upon the whole, and renders the 
very thought and contemplation of it agreeable, is so very 
obvious, that nobody has overlooked it. 

The cause too, why utility pleases, has of late been assigned 
by an ingenious and agreeable philosopher, who joins the 
greatest depth of thought to the greatest elegance of expres¬ 
sion, and possesses the singular and happy talent of treating 
the abstrusest subjects not only with the most perfect perspi¬ 
cuity, but with the most lively eloquence. The utility of any 
object, according tohim, pleases the master by perpetually sug¬ 
gesting to him, the pleasure or conveniency which it is fitted 
to promote. Every time he looks at it, he is put in mind of 
this pleasure; and the object in this manner becomes a scouree 
of.perpetual satisfaction and enjoyment. The spectator enters 
by sympathy into the sentiments of the master, and necessa¬ 
rily views the object under the same agreeable aspect. When 
we visit the palaces of the great, we cannot help conceiving 
the satisfaction we should enjoy if we ourselves were the 
masters, and were possessed of so. much artful and ingeniously 
contrived accommodation. A similar account is given why 
the appearance of inconveniency should render any object 
disagreeable both to the owner and to be the spectator. 

But that this fitness, this happy contrivance of any pro¬ 
duction of art, should often be more valued, than the very 
end for which it was intended; and that the exact adjustment 
of the means for obtaining any conveniency or pleasure, 
should frequently be more regarded, than that very conveni¬ 
ency or pleasure, in the attainment of which their whole me¬ 
rit would seem to consist, has not, so far as I know, been yet 
taken notice of by any body. That this however, is very 
frequently the case, may be observed in a thousand instances, 
both in the most frivolous and in the most important concerns 
of human life. 

When a person comes into his chamber, and finds the 
chairs all standing in the middle of the room, he is angry 
with his servant, and rather than see them continue in that 


246 


THE EFFECT 


Part IV. 


disorder, perhaps takes the trouble himself to set them all in 
their places with their backs to the wall. The whole propri¬ 
ety of this new situation arises from its superior conveniency 
in leaving the floor free and disengaged. To attain this con¬ 
veniency he voluntarily puts himself to more trouble than all 
he could have suffered from the want of it; since nothing 
was more easy, than to have set himself down upon one of 
them, which is probably what he does when his labour is 
over. What he wanted therefore, it seems, was not so much 
this conveniency, as that arrangement of things which pro¬ 
motes it. Yet it is this conveniency which ultimately recom¬ 
mends that arrangement, and bestows upon it the whole of its 
propriety and beauty. 

A watch, in the same manner, that falls behind above two 
minutes in a day, is despised by one curious in watches. He 
sells it perhaps for a couple of guineas, and purchases another 
at fifty, which will not lose above a minute in a fortnight. 
The sole use of watches, however, is to tell us what o’clock 
it is, and to hinder us from breaking any engagement, or 
suffering any other inconveniency by our ingorance in that 
particular point. But the person so nice with regard to this 
machine, will not always be found either more scrupulously 
punctual than .other men, or more anxiously concerned upon 
any other account, to know precisely what time of day it is. 
what interests him is not so much the attainment of this piece 
of knowledge, as the perfection of the machine which serves 
to attain it. 

How many people ruin themselves by laying out money on 
trinkets of frivolous utility! What pleases these lovers of 
toys is not so much the utility as the aptness of the machines 
which are fitted to promote it. All their pockets are stuffed 
with little conveniences. They contrive new pockets, un¬ 
known in the clothes of other people, in order to carry a 
greater number. They walk about loaded with a multitude 
of baubles, in weight and sometimes in value not inferior to 
an ordinary Jew’s-box, some of which may sometimes be of 
some little use, but all of which might at all times be very 


OF UTILITY. 


24? 


Chap. I. 

well spared, and of which the whole utility is certainly not 
worth the fatigue of bearing the burden. 

Nor is it only with regard to such frivolous objects that 
our conduct is influenced by this principle; it is often the 
secret motive of the most serious and important pursuits of 
both private and public life. 

The poor man’s son, whom heaven in its anger has visited 
with ambition, when he begins to look around him, admires 
the condition of the rich. He finds the cottage of his father 
too small for his accommodation, and fancies he should be 
lodged more at his ease in a palace. He is displeased with 
being obliged to walk a-foot, or to endure the fatigue of 
riding on horseback. He sees his superiors carried about in 
machines, and imagines that in one of these he could travel 
with less inconveniency. He feels himself naturally indolent, 
and willing to serve himself with his own hands as little as 
possible; and judges, that a numerous retinue of servants 
would save him from a great deal of trouble. He thinks if 
lie had attained all these, he would sit still contentedly, and 
be quiet, enjoying himself in the thought of the happiness 
and tranquillity of his situation. He is enchanted with the 
distant idea of this felicity. It appears in his fancy like the 
life of some superior rank of beings, and, in order to arrive 
at it, he devotes himself for ever to the pursuit of wealth and 
greatness. To obtain the conveniences which these afford, 
he submits in the first year, nay in the first month of his ap¬ 
plication, to more fatigue of body and more uneasiness of 
mind than he could have suffered through the whole of his 
life from the want of them. He studies to distinguish him¬ 
self in some laborious profession. With the most unrelent¬ 
ing industry he labours night and day to acquire talents su¬ 
perior to all his competitors. He endeavours next to bring 
those talents into public view, and with equal assiduity solicits 
every opportunity of employment. For this purpose he 
makes his court to all mankind; he serves those whom he 
hates, and is obsequious to those whom he despises. 1 hrough 
the whole of his life he pursues the idea of a certain artificial 


248 


TIIE EFFECT 


Part. IV. 


and elegant repose which he may never arrive at, for which 
he sacrifices a real tranquillity that is at all times in his power, 
and which, if in the extremity of old age he should at last 
attain to it, he will find to be in no respect preferable to that 
humble security and contentment which he had abandoned 
for it. It is then, in the last dregs of life, his body wasted 
with toil and diseases, his mind galled and ruffled by the 
memory of a thousand injuries and disappointments which he 
imagines he has met with from the injustice of his enemies, 
or from the perfidy and ingratitude of his friends, that he 
begins at last to find that wealth and greatness are mere trin¬ 
kets of frivolous utility, no more adapted for procuring ease 
of body or tranquillity of mind than the tweezer-cases of the 
lover of toys; and like them too, more troublesome to the 
person who carries them about with him, than all the advan¬ 
tages they can afford him are commodious. There is no other 
real difference between them, except that the conveniences 
of the one are somewhat more observable than those of the 
other. The palaces, the gardens, the equipage, the retinue 
of the great, are objects of which the obvious conveniency 
strikes every body. They do not require that their masters 
should point out to us wherein consists their utility. Of our 
own accord we readily enter into it, and by sympathy enjoy 
and thereby applaud the satisfaction which they are fitted to 
aftord him. But the curiosity of a tooth-pick, of an ear- 
picker, of a machine for cutting the nails, or of any other 
trinket of the same kind, is not so obvious. Their conveni¬ 
ency may perhaps be equally great, but it is not so striking, and 
we do not so readily enter into the satisfaction of the man who 
possesses them, ihey are therefore less reasonable subjects 
of vanity than the magnificence of wealth and greatness; and 
in this consists the sole advantage of these last. They more 
effectually gratify that love of distinction so natural to man. 
1 o one who was to live alone in a desolate island it might be 
a matter of doubt, perhaps, whether a palace, or a collection 
of such small conveniencies as are commonly contained in a 
tweezer-case, would contribute most to his happiness and en- 


Chap. 1. of UTILITY. 049 

joyment. If he is to live in society, indeed, there can be no 
comparison, because in this, as in all other cases, we constant¬ 
ly pay more regard to the sentiments of the spectator, than 
to those of the person principally concerned, and consider 
rather how his situation will appear to other people, than how 
it will appear to himself. If we examine, however, why the 
spectator distinguishes with such admiration the condition of 
the rich and the great, we shall find that it is not so much 
upon account of the superior ease or pleasure which they are 
supposed to enjoy, as of the numberless artificial and elegant 
contrivances for promoting this ease or pleasure. He does 
not even imagine that they are really happier than other peo¬ 
ple: but he imagines that they possess more means of happi¬ 
ness. And it is the ingenious and artful adjustment of those 
means to the end for which they were intended, that is the 
principle source of his admiration. But in the languor of 
disease and the weariness of old age, the pleasures of the vain 
and empty distinctions of greatness disappear. To one, in 
this situation, they are no longer capable of recommending 
those toilsome pursuits in which they had formerly engaged 
him. In his heart he curses ambition, and vainly regrets the 
ease and the indolence of youth, pleasures which are fled for 
ever, and which he has foolishly sacrificed for what, when 
he has got it, can afford him no real satisfaction. In this mi¬ 
serable aspect does greatness appear to every man when re¬ 
duced either by spleen or disease, to observe with attention 
his own situation, and to consider what it is that is really 
wanting to his happiness. Power and riches appear then to 
be, what they are, enormous and operose machines contrived 
to produce a few trifling conveniencies to the body, consisting 
of springs the most nice and delicate, which must be kept in 
order with the most anxious attention, and which in spite of 
all our care are ready every moment to burst into pieces, and 
to crush in their ruins their unfortunate possessor. They are 
immense fabrics, which it requires the labour of a life to raise, 
which threaten every moment to overwhelm the person that 
dwells in them, and which while they stand, though they may 

2 1 


25 0 


the effect 


Part IV. 


save him from some smaller inconveniences, can protect him 
from none of the severer inclemencies of the season. They 
keep off the summer shower, not the winter storm, but leave 
him always as much, and sometimes more exposed than be¬ 
fore, to anxiety, to fear, and to sorrow; to diseases, to dan¬ 
ger, and to death. 

But though this splenetic philosophy, which in time of 
sickness or low spirits is familiar to every man, thus entirely 
depreciates those great objects of human desire, when in bet¬ 
ter health and in better humour, we never fail to regard them 
under a more agreeable aspect. Our imagination, which in 
pain and sorrow seems to be confined and cooped up within 
our own persons, in times of ease and prosperity expands it¬ 
self to every thing around us. We are then charmed with 
the beauty of that accommodation which reigns in the palaces 
and ceconomy of the great; and admire how every thing 
is adapted to promote their ease, to prevent their wants, to 
gratify their wishes, and to amuse and entertain their most 
frivolous desires. If we consider the real satisfaction which 
all these things are capable of affording, by itself, and sepa¬ 
rated from the beauty of that arrangement which is fitted to 
promote it, it will always appear in the highest degree con¬ 
temptible and trifling. But we rarely view it in this abstract 
and philosophical light. We naturally confound it in our 
imagination with the order, the regular and harmonious 
movement of the system, the machine or ceconomy by means 
of which it is produced. The pleasures of wealth and great¬ 
ness, when considered in this complex view, strike the ima¬ 
gination as something grand and beautiful, and noble, of which 
the attainment is well worth all the toil and anxiety which 
we are so apt to bestow upon it. 

And it is well that nature imposes upon us in this man¬ 
ner. It is this deception which rouses and keeps in continual 
motion the industry of mankind. It is this which first 
prompted them to cultivate the ground, to build houses, to 
found cities and commonwealths, and to invent and improve 
all the sciences and arts, which ennoble and embellish human 


Chap. I. 


OF UTILITY. 


251 


life; which have entirely changed the whole face of the globe, 
have turned the rude forests of nature into agreeable and 
fertile plains, and made the trackless and barren ocean a new 
fund of subsistence, and the great high road of communica¬ 
tion to the different nations of the earth. The earth by these 
labours of mankind has been obliged to redoubled her natural 
fertility, and to maintain a greater multitude of inhabitants. 
It is to no purpose, that the proud and unfeeling landlord 
views his extensive fields, and without a thought for the 
wants of his brethren, in imagination consumes himself the 
whole harvest that grows upon them. The homely and 
vulgar proverb, that the eye is larger than the belly, never 
was more fully verified than with regard to him. The ca¬ 
pacity of his stomach bears no proportion to the immensity 
of his desires, and will receive no more than that of the mean¬ 
est peasant. The rest he is obliged to destribute among 
those, who prepare, in the nicest manner, that little which he 
himself makes use of, among those who fit up the palace in 
which this little is to be consumed, among those who provide 
and keep in order all the different baubles and trinkets, 
which are employed in the ceconomy of greatness; all of 
whom thus derive from his luxury and caprice, that share of 
the necessaries of life, which they would in vain have ex¬ 
pected from his humanity or his justice. The produce of the 
soil maintains at all times nearly that number of inhabitants 
which it is capable of maintaining. The rich only select 
from the heap what is most precious and agreeable. They 
consume little more than the poor, and in spite of their na¬ 
tural selfishness and rapacity, though they mean only their 
own conveniency, though the sole end which they propose 
from the labours of all the thousands whom they employ, be- 
the gratification of their own vain and insatiable desires, they 
divide with the poor the produce of all their improvements. 
They are led by an invisible hand to make nearly the same 
distribution of the necessaries of life, which would have been 
made had the earth been divided into equal portions among 
all its inhabitants; and thus, without intending it, without 

2 i 2 


252 


TIIE EFFECT 


Part IV. 


knowing it, advance the interest of the society, and afford 
means to the multiplication of the species. When Provi¬ 
dence divided the earth among a few lordly masters, it neither 
forgot nor abandoned those who seemed to have been left out 
in the partition. These last too enjoy their share of all that 
it produces. In what constitutes the real happiness of hu¬ 
man life, they are in no respect inferior to those who would 
seem so much above them. In ease of body and peace of 
mind, all the different ranks of life are nearly upon a level, 
and the beggar, who suns himself by the side of the high¬ 
way, possesses that security which kings are fighting for. 

The same principle, the same love of system, the same 
regard to the beauty of order, of art, and contrivance, fre¬ 
quently serves to recommend those institutions which tend 
to promote the public welfare. When a patriot exerts him¬ 
self for the improvement of any part of the public police, 
his conduct does not always arise from pure sympathy with 
the happiness of those who are to reap the benefit of it. It 
is not commonly from a fellow-feeling with carriers and 
waggoners that a public-spirited man encourages the mend¬ 
ing of high roads. When the legislature establishes pre¬ 
miums and other encouragements to advance the linen or 
woollen manufactures, its conduct seldom proceeds from 
pure sympathy with the wearer of cheap or fine cloth, and 
much less from that with the manufacturer or merchant. 
The perfection of police, the extension of trade and manu¬ 
factures, are noble and magnificent objects. The contem¬ 
plation of them pleases us, and we are interested in what¬ 
ever can tend to advance them. They make part of the 
great system of government, and the wheels of the political 
machine seem to move with more harmony and ease by 
means of them. We take pleasure in beholding the per¬ 
fection of so beautiful and grand a system, and we are un¬ 
easy till we remove any obstruction that can in the least dis¬ 
turb or encumber the regularity of its motions. All con¬ 
stitutions of government, however, tire valued only in pro¬ 
portion as they tend to promote the happiness of those who 


Chap. I. 


OF UTILITY. 


253 


live under them. This is their sole use and end. From a 
certain spirit of system, however, from a certain love of art 
and contrivance, we sometimes seem to value the means 
more than the end, and to be eager to promote the happi- 
piness of our fellow-creatures, rather from a view to perfect 
and improve a certain beautiful and orderly system, than 
from any immediate sense or feeling of what they either suf¬ 
fer or enjoy. There have been men of the greatest public 
spirit, who have shown themselves in other respects not ve¬ 
ry sensible to the feelings of humanity. And on the con¬ 
trary, there have been men of the greatest humanity, who 
seem to have been entirely devoid of public spirit. Every 
man may find in the circle of his acquaintance instances both 
of the one kind and the other. Who had ever less huma¬ 
nity, or more public spirit, than the celebrated legislator of 
Muscovy? The social and well-natured James the First of 
Great Britain seems, on the contrary, to have had scarce any 
passion, either for the glory or the interest of his country. 
Would you awaken the industry of the man who seems al¬ 
most dead to ambition, it will often be to no purpose to de¬ 
scribe to him the happiness of the rich and the great; to tell 
him that they are generally sheltered from the sun and the 
rain, that they are seldom hungry, that they are seldom cold, 
and that they are rarely exposed to weariness, or to want of 
any kind. The most eloquent exhortation of this kind will 
have little effect upon him. If you would hope to succeed, 
you must describe to him the conveniency and arrangement 
of the different apartments in their palaces; you must ex¬ 
plain to him the propriety of their equipages, and point out 
to him the number, the order, and the different offices of all 
their attendants. If any thing is capable of making impres¬ 
sion upon him, this will. Yet all these things tend only to 
keep off the sun and the rain, to save them from hunger 
and cold, from want and weariness. In the same manner, 
if you would implant public virtue in the breast of him who 
seems heedless of the interest of his country, it will often be 
fo no purpose to tell him, what superior advantages the sub- 


' 25 * 


THE EFFECT 


Part IV. 


jects of a well-governed state enjoy; that they are better 
lodged, that they are better clothed, that they are better fed. 
These considerations will commonly make no great impres¬ 
sion. You will be more likely to persuade, if you describe 
the great system of public police which procures these ad¬ 
vantages, if you explain the connexions and dependencies of 
its several parts, their mutual subordination to one another, 
and their general subserviency to the happiness of the socie¬ 
ty; if you show how this system might be introduced into 
his own country, what it is that hinders it from taking place 
there at present, how those obstructions might be removed, 
and all the several wheels of the machine of government be 
made to move with more harmony and smoothness, without 
grating upon one another, or mutually retarding one ano¬ 
ther’s motions. It is scarce possible that a man should listen 
to a discourse of this kind, and not feel himself animated to 
some degree of public spirit. He will, at least for the mo¬ 
ment, feel some desire to remove those obstructions, and to 
put into motion so beautiful and so orderly a machine. No¬ 
thing tends so much to promote public spirit as the study of 
politics, of the several systems of civil government, their ad¬ 
vantages and disadvantages, of the constitution of our own 
country, its situation, and interest with regard to foreign 
nations, its commerce, its defence, the disadvantages it la¬ 
bours under, the dangers to which it may be exposed, how 
to remove the one, and how to guard against the other. 
Upon this account political disquisitions, if just, and reason¬ 
able, and practicable, are of all the works of speculation the 
most useful. Even the weakest and the worst of them are 
not altogether without their utility. They serve at least to 
animate the public passions of men, and rouse them to seek 
out the means of promoting the happiness of the society. 


Chap. II. 


OF UTILITY. 


2 55 


CHAPTER II. 

Of the beauty which the appearance of Utility bcsto'ws upon 
the characters and actions of Men; and how far the per¬ 
ception of this beauty may be regarded as one of the 
original principles of Approbation. 

THE characters of men, as well as the contrivances of art, 
or the institutions of civil government, may be fitted either 
to promote or to disturb the happiness both of the individu¬ 
al and of the society. The prudent, the equitable, the active, 
resolute and sober character, promises prosperity and satisfac¬ 
tion, both to the person himself and to every one connected 
with him. The rash, the insolent, the slothful, effeminate, 
and voluptuous, on the contrary, forebodes ruin to the in¬ 
dividual, and misfortune to all who have any thing to do 
with him. The first turn of mind has at least all the beauty 
which can belong to the most perfect machine that was ever 
invented for promoting the most agreeable purpose: and the 
second, all the deformity of the most awkward and clumsy 
contrivance. What institution of government could tend so 
much to promote the happiness of mankind as the general 
prevalence of wisdom and virtue? All government is but an 
imperfect remedy for the deficiency of these. Whatever 
beauty, therefore, can belong to civil government upon ac¬ 
count of its utility, must in a far superior degree belong to 
these. On the contrary, what civil policy can be so ruinous 
and destructive as the vices of men? The fatal effects of 
bad government arise from nothing, but that it does not suf¬ 
ficiently guard against the mischiefs which human wicked¬ 
ness gives occasion to. 

This beauty and deformity which characters appear to 
derive from their usefulness or inconveniency, are apt to 
strike, in a peculiar manner, those who consider, in an ab¬ 
stract and philosophical light, the actions and conduct of 


256 


THE EFFECT 


Part IV. 


mankind. When a philosopher goes to examine why hu¬ 
manity is approved of or cruelty condemned, he does not al¬ 
ways form to himself, in a very clear and distinct manner, 
the conception of any one particular action either of cruelty 
or of humanity, but is commonly contented with the vague 
and indeterminate idea which the general names of those 
qualities suggest to him. But it is in particular instances 
only that the propriety or impropriety, the merit or demerit 
of actions is very obvious and discernible. It is only when 
particular examples are given that we perceive distinctly ei¬ 
ther the concord or disagreement between our own affections 
and those of the agent, or feel a social gratitude arise towards 
him in the one case, or a sympathetic resentment in the c- 
ther. When we consider virtue and vice in an abstract and 
general manner, the qualities by which they excite these se¬ 
veral sentiments seem in a great measure to disappear, and 
the sentiments themselves become less obvious and discern¬ 
ible. On the contrary, the happy effects of the one and the 
fatal consequences of the other seem, then to rise up to the 
view, and as it were to stand out and distinguish themselves 
from all the other qualities of either. 

The same ingenious and agreeable author who first ex¬ 
plained why utility pleases, has been so struck with this view 
of things, as to resolve our whole approbation of virtue into 
a perception of this species of beauty which results from the 
appearance of utility. No qualities of the mind, he observes, 
are approved of as virtuous, but such as are useful or agree¬ 
able either to the person himself or to others; and no qua¬ 
lities are disapproved of as vicious, but such as have a con¬ 
trary tendency. And Nature, indeed, seems to have so hap¬ 
pily adjusted our sentiments of approbation and disapproba¬ 
tion, to the conveniency both of the individual and of the so¬ 
ciety, that after the strictest examination it will be found, I 
believe, that this is universally the case. But still I affirm, 
that it is not the view of this utility or hurtfulncss which is 
either the first or principal source of our approbation and 
disapprobation. These sentiments are no doubt enhanced 


Chap. II. 


OF UTILITY. 


257 


2nd enlivened by the perception of the beauty or deformity 
which results from this utility or hurtfulness. But still, I 
say, they are originally and essentially different from this 
perception. 

For, first of all, it seems impossible that the approbation 
of virtue should be a sentiment of the same kind with that 
by which we approve of a convenient and well-contrived 
building; or that we should have no other reason for prais¬ 
ing a man than that for which we commend a chest of draw¬ 
ers. 

And secondly, it will be found, upon examination, that 
the usefulness of any disposition of mind is seldom the first 
ground of our approbation; and that the sentiment of appro¬ 
bation always involves in it a sense of propriety quite distinct 
from the perception of utility. We may observe this with 
regard to all the qualities which are approved of as virtuous, 
both those which, according to this system, are originally va¬ 
lued as useful to ourselves, as well as those which are esteem¬ 
ed on account of their usefulness to others. 

The qualities most useful to ourselves are, first of all, su¬ 
perior reason and understanding, by which we are capable of 
discerning the remote consequences of all our actions, and 
of foreseeing the advantage or detriment which is likely to 
result from them: and secondly, self-command, by which we 
are enabled to abstain from present pleasure or to endure 
present pain, in order to obtain a greater pleasure or to avoid 
a greater pain in some future time. In the union of those 
two qualities consists the virtue of prudence, of all the vir¬ 
tues that which is most useful to the individual. 

With regard .to the first of those qualities, it has been 
observed on a former occasion, that superior reason and un¬ 
derstanding are originally approved of as just and ’right, and 
accurate, and not merely as useful or advantageous. It is in 
the abstruser sciences, particularly in the higher parts of ma¬ 
thematics, that the greatest and most admired exertions of 
human reason have been displayed. But the utility of those 
sciences, either to the individual or to the public, is not very 

2 K 


258 


TIIE EFFECT 


Part IV. 


obvious, and to prove it, requires a discussion which is not 
always very easily comprehended. It was not, therefore, 
their utility which first recommended them to the public ad¬ 
miration. This quality was but little insisted upon, till it 
became necessary to make some reply to the reproaches of 
those, who, having themselves no taste for such sublime dis¬ 
coveries, endeavoured to depreciate them as useless. 

That self-command, in the same manner, by which we 
restrain our present appetites, in order to gratify them more 
fully upon another occasion, is approved of, as much under 
the aspect of propriety, as under that of utility. When we 
act in this manner, the sentiments which influence our con¬ 
duct seem exactly to coincide with those of the spectator. 
The spectator does not feel the solicitations of our present 
appetites. To him the pleasure which we are to enjoy a 
week hence, or a year hence, is just as interesting as that 
which we are to enjoy this moment. When for the sake of 
the present, therefore, we sacrifice the future, our conduct 
appears to him absurd and extravagant in the highest degree, 
and he cannot enter into the principles which influence it. 
On the contrary, when we abstain from present pleasure, in 
order to secure greater pleasure to come, when we act as if 
the remote object interested us as much as that which imme¬ 
diately presses upon the senses, as our affections exactly cor¬ 
respond with his own, he cannot fail to approve of our be¬ 
haviour: and as he knows from experience, how few are ca¬ 
pable of this self-command, he looks upon our conduct with 
a considerable degree of wonder and admiration. Hence a- 
rises that eminent esteem with which all men naturally re¬ 
gard a steady perseverance in the practice of frugality, in¬ 
dustry, and application, though directed to no other purpose 
than the acquisition of fortune. The resolute firmness of 
the person who acts in this manner, and, in order to obtain 
a great though remote advantage, not only gives up all pre¬ 
sent pleasures, but endures the greatest labour both of mind 
and body, necessarily commands our approbation. That 
view of his interest and happiness which, appears to regulate 


Chap. II. 


OP UTILITY. 


259 


his conduct, exactly tallies with the idea which we naturally 
form of it. There is the most perfect correspondence be¬ 
tween his sentiments and our own, and at the same time, 
from our experience of the common weakness of human na¬ 
ture, it is a correspondence which we could not reasonably 
have expected. We not only approve, therefore, but in some 
measure admire his conduct, and think it worthy of a con¬ 
siderable degree of applause. It is the consciousness of this 
merited approbation and esteem which is alone capable of 
supporting the agent in this tenour of conduct. The plea¬ 
sure which we are to enjoy ten years hence, interests us so 
little in comparison with that which we may enjoy to-day, 
the passion which the first excites, is naturally so weak in 
comparison with that violent emotion which the second is 
apt to give occasion to, that the one could never be any ba¬ 
lance to the other, unless it was supported by the sense of 
propriety, by the consciousness that we merited the esteem 
and approbation of every body, by acting in the one way, and 
that we became the proper objects of their contempt and de¬ 
rision by behaving in the other. 

Humanity, justice, generosity, and public spirit, are the 
qualities most useful to others. Wherein consists the pro¬ 
priety of humanity and justice has been explained upon a for¬ 
mer occasion, where it was shewn how much our esteem and 
approbation of those qualities depended upon the concord be¬ 
tween the affections of the agent and those of the spectators. 

The propriety of generosity and public spirit is founded 
upon the same principle with that of justice. Generosity is 
different from humanity. Those two qualities, which at first 
sight seem so nearly allied, do not always belong to the same 
person. Humanity is the virtue of a woman, generosity of 
a man. The fair sex, who have commonly much more ten¬ 
derness than ours, have seldom so much generosity. That 
women rarely make considerable donations, is an observation 
of the civil law*. Humanity consists merely in the exqui- 

* Raro mulieres donare solent. 

2 K 2 


260 ‘ 


THE EFFECT 


Part IV. 


site fellow-feeling which the spectator entertains with the 
sentiments of the persons principally concerned* so as to grieve 
for their sufferings* to resent their injuries* and to rejoice at 
their good fortune. The most humane actions require no 
self-denial* no self-command, no great exertion of the sense 
of propriety. They consist only in doing what this exqui¬ 
site sympathy would of its own accord prompt us to do. 
But it is otherwise with generosity. We never are gene¬ 
rous except when in some respect we prefer some other per¬ 
son to ourselves, and sacrifice some great and important inte¬ 
rest of our own to an equal interest of a friend or of a supe¬ 
rior. The man who gives up his pretensions to an office that 
was the great object of his ambition, because he imagines 
that the services of another are better entitled to it; the man 
who exposes his life to defend that of his friend, which he 
judges to be of more importance, neither of them act from 
humanity, or because they feel more exquisitely what con¬ 
cerns that other person than what concerns themselves. They 
both consider those opposite interests, not in the light in 
which they naturally appear to themselves, but in that in 
which they appear to others. To every by-stander, the suc¬ 
cess or preservation or this other person may justly be more 
interesting than their own; but it cannot be so to themselves. 
When to the interest of this other person, therefore, they 
sacrifice their own, they accommodate themselves to the sen¬ 
timents of the spectator, and by an effort of magnanimity 
act according to those views of things which they feel, must 
naturally occur to any third person. The soldier who throws 
aways his life in order to defend that of his officer, would 
perhaps be but little affected by the death of that officer, if 
it should happen without any fault of his own; and a very 
small disaster which had befallen himself might excite a much 
more lively sorrow. But when he endeavours to act so as 
to deserve applause, and to make the impartial spectator enter 
into the principles of his conduct, he feels, that to every body 
but himself, his own life is a trifle compared with that of his 
officer, and that when he sacrifices the one to the other, he 


Chap. II. 


Ok UTILITY. 


261 


acts quite properly and agreeably to what would be the na¬ 
tural apprehensions of every impartial by stander. 

It is the same case with the greater exertions of public 
spirit. When a young officer exposes his life to acquire some 
inconsiderable addition to the dominions of his sovereign, it 
is not because the acquisition of the new territory is, to him¬ 
self, an object more desirable than the preservation of his own 
life. To him his own life is of infinitely more value than 
the conquest of a whole kingdom for the state which he 
serves. But when he compares those two objects with* one 
another, he does not view them in the light in which they 
naturally appear to himself, but in that in which they appear 
to the nation he fights for. To them the success of the war 
is of the highest importance; the life of a private person of 
scarce any consequence. When he puts himself in their si¬ 
tuation, he immediately feels that he cannot be too prodigal 
of his blood, if, by shedding it, he can promote so valuable a 
purpose. In thus thwarting, from a sense of duty and pro¬ 
priety, the strongest of all natural propensities, consists the 
heroism of his conduct. There is many an honest English¬ 
man, who, in his private station, would be more seriously 
disturbed by the loss of a guinea, than by the loss of Minorca, 
who yet, had it been in his power to defend that fortress, 
would have sacrificed his life a thousand times rather than, 
through his fault, have let it fall into the hands of the enemy. 
When the first Brutus led forth his own sons to a capital 
punishment, because they had conspired against the rising 
liberty of Rome, he sacrificed what, if he had consulted his 
own breast only, would appear to be the stronger to the weak¬ 
er affection. Brutus ought naturally to have felt much more 
for the death of his own sons, than for all that probably 
Rome could have suffered from the want of so great an ex¬ 
ample. But he viewed them, not with the eyes of a father, 
but with those of a Roman citizen. He entered so throughly 
into the sentiments of this last character, that he paid no re¬ 
gard to that tie, by which he himself was connected with 
them; and to a Roman citizen, the sons even of Brutus 


262 


THE EFFECT 


Part IV. 


semed contemptible, when put into the balance with the small¬ 
est interest of Rome. In these and in all other cases of this 
kind, our admiration is not so much founded upon the uti¬ 
lity, as upon the unexpected, and on that account the great, 
the noble, and exalted propriety of such actions. This uti¬ 
lity, when we come to view it, bestows upon them, undoubt¬ 
edly, a new beauty, and upon that account still further re¬ 
commends them to our approbation. This beauty, however, 
is chiefly perceived by men of reflection and speculation, and 
is by no means the quality which first recommends such ac¬ 
tions to the natural sentiments of the bulk of mankind. 

It is to be observed, that so far as the sentiment of ap¬ 
probation arises from the perception of this beauty of utility, 
it has no reference of any kind to the sentiments of others* 
If it was possible, therefore, that a person should grow up. 
to manhood without any communication with society, his 
own actions might, notwithstanding, be agreeable or disa¬ 
greeable to him on account of their tendency to his happi¬ 
ness or disadvantage. He might perceive a beauty of this 
kind in prudence, temperance, and good conduct, and a de¬ 
formity in the opposite behaviour; he might view his own 
temper and character with that sort of satisfaction with which 
we consider a well contrived machine, in the one case ; or 
with that sort of distaste and dissatisfaction with which we 
regard a very aukward and clumsy contrivance, in the other. 
As these perceptions, however, are merely a matter of taste, 
and have all the feebleness and delicacy of that species of 
perceptions, upon the justness of which what is properly 
called taste is founded, they probably would not be much 
attended to by one in his solitary and miserable condition. 
Even though they should occur to him, they would by no 
means have the same effect upon him, antecedent to his 
connexion with society, which they would have in conse¬ 
quence of that connexion. He would not be cast down with 
inward shame at the thought of this deformity; nor would 
he be elevated with secret triumph of mind from the 
consciousness of the contrary beauty. He would not exult 


Chap. II. 


OP UTILITY. 


263 


from the notion of deserving reward in the one case, nor 
tremble from the suspicion of meriting punishment in the 
other. All such sentiments suppose the idea of some other be¬ 
ing, who is the natural judge of the person that feels them; 
and it is only by sympathy with the decisions of this arbiter of 
his conduct, that he can conceive, either the triumph of self¬ 
applause, or the shame of self-condemnation. 


THE 


THEORY 

O F 

mor^ljl sentiments » 


PART V. 

Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon 
the Sentiments of Moral Approbation 
and Disapprobation. 

Consisting of One Section. 


CHAPTER I. 

Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon our notions of 
Beauty and Deformity, 

rHERE are other principles besides those already enume¬ 
rated, which have a considerable influence upon the moral 
sentiments of mankind, and are the chief causes of the many 
irregular and discordant opinions which prevail in different 
ages and nations concerning what is blameable or praise¬ 
worthy. These principles are custom and fashion, princi¬ 
ples which extend their dominion over our judgments con¬ 
cerning beauty of every kind. 




Chap. I. 


OF THE INFLUENCE OF CUSTOM. 


265 


When two objects have frequently been seen together, the 
Imagination requires a habit of passing easily from the one 
to the other. If the first appear, we lay our account that 
the second is to follow. Of their own accord they put us 
in mind of one another, and the attention glides easily along 
them. Though, independent of custom, there should be no 
real beauty in their union, yet when custom has thus con¬ 
nected them together, we feel an impropriety in their sepa¬ 
ration. The one we think is awkward when it appears with¬ 
out its usual companion. We miss something which we ex¬ 
pected to find, and the habitual arrangement of our ideas is 
disturbed by the disappointment. A suit of clothes, for ex¬ 
ample, seems to want something if they are without the most 
insignificant ornament which usually accompanies them, and 
we find a meanness or awkwardness in the absence even of 
a haunch button. When there is any natural propriety in 
the union, custom increases our sense of it, and makes a dif¬ 
ferent arrangement appear still more disagreeable than it 
would otherwise seem to be. Those who have been accus¬ 
tomed to see things in a good taste, are more disgusted by 
whatever is clumsy or awkward. Where the conjunction is 
improper, custom either diminishes, or takes away altogether, 
our sense of the impropriety. Those who have been accus¬ 
tomed to slovenly disorder lose all sense of neatness or ele¬ 
gance. The modes of furniture or dress which seem ridicu¬ 
lous to strangers, give no offence to the people who are used 
to them. 

Fashion is different from custom, or rather is a particular 
species of it. That is not the fashion which every body 
wears, but which those wear who are of a high rank, or cha¬ 
racter. The graceful, the easy, and commanding manners 
of the great, joined to the usual richness and magnificence of 
their dress, give a grace to the very form which they happen 
to bestow upon it. As long as they continue to use this form, 
it is connected in our imaginations with the idea of some¬ 
thing that is genteel and magnificent, and though in itself it 
should be indifferent, it seems, on account of this relation, 


266 


OF THE INFLUENCE 


Part V. 


to have something about it that is genteel and magnificent 
too. As soon as they dropt it, it loses all the grace, which 
it had appeared to possess before, and being now used only 
by the inferior ranks of people, seems to have something of 
their meanness and awkwardness. 

Dress and furniture are allowed by all the world to be 
entirely under the dominion of custom and fashion. The 
influence of those principles, however, is by no means con¬ 
fined to so narrow a sphere, but extends itself to whatever 
is in any respect the object of taste, to music, to poetry, to 
architecture. The modes of dress and furniture are conti¬ 
nually changing, and that fashion appearing ridiculous to¬ 
day which was admired five years ago, we are experimental¬ 
ly convinced that it owed its vogue chiefly or entirely to cus¬ 
tom and fashion. Clothes and furniture are not made of 
very durable materials. A well-fancied coat is done in a 
twelve-month, and cannot continue longer to propagate, as 
the fashion, that form according to which it was made. The 
modes of furniture change less rapidly than those of dress; 
because furniture is commonly more durable. In five or 
six years, however, it generally undergoes an entire revolu¬ 
tion, and every man in his own time sees the fashion in this 
respect change many different ways. The productions of 
the other arts are much more lasting, and, when happily 
imagined, may continue to propagate the fashion of their make 
for a much longer time. A well-contrived building may en¬ 
dure many centuries: a beautiful air may be delivered down 
by a sort of tradition through many successive generations: a 
well-written poem may last as long as the world; and all of them 
continue for ages together, to give the vogue to that particular 
style, to that particular taste or manner, according to which 
each of them was composed. Few men have an opportunity of 
seeing in their own times the fashion in any of these arts 
change very considerably. Few men have so much expe¬ 
rience and acquaintance with the different modes which have 
obtained in remote ages and nations, as to be thoroughly 
reconciled to them, or to judge with impartiality between 


Chap. I. 


OF custom. 


267 


them, and what takes place in their own age and country. 
Few men therefore are willing to allow, that custom or fash¬ 
ion have much influence upon their judgments concerning 
what is beautiful, or otherwise, in the productions of any of 
those arts; but imagine, that all the rules, which they think 
ought to be observed in each of them are founded upon 
reason and nature, not upon habit, or prejudice. A very 
little attention, however, may convince them of the contrary 
and satisfy them, that the influence of custom and fash¬ 
ion over dress and furniture, is not more absolute than over 
architecture, poetry, and music. 

Can any reason, for example, be assigned why the Doric 
capital should be appropriated to a pillar, whose height is e« 
qual to eight diameters; the Ionic volute to one of nine; 
and the Corinthian foliage to one of ten? The propri¬ 
ety of each of those appropriations can be founded upon 
nothing but habit and custom. The eye having been used 
to see a particular proportion connected with a particu¬ 
lar ornament, would be offended if they were not joined to¬ 
gether. Each of the five orders has its peculiar ornaments, 
which cannot be changed for any other, without giving of¬ 
fence to all those who know any thing of the rules of archi¬ 
tecture. According to some architects, indeed, such is the 
exquisite judgment with which the ancients have assigned 
to each order its proper ornaments, that no others can be 
found which are equally suitable. It seems, however, a 
little difficult to be conceived that these forms, though, no 
doubt, extremely agreeable, should be the only forms which 
can suit those proportions, or that there should not be five 
hundred others, which, antecedent to established custom, 
would have fitted them equally well. When custom, how¬ 
ever, has established particular rules of building, provided 
they are not absolutely unreasonable, it is absurd to think of 
altering them for others which are only equally good, or e- 
ven for others which, in point of elegance and beauty, have 
naturally some little advantage over them. A man would 
be ridiculous who should appear in public with a suit of clothes 

2 L 2 


268 


OP THE INFLUENCE 


Part V. 


quite different from those which are commonly worn, though 
the new dress should in itself be ever so graceful or conve¬ 
nient. And there seems to be an absurdity of the same kind 
in ornamenting a house after a quite different manner from 
that which custom and fashion have prescribed; though the 
new ornaments should in themselves be somewhat superior to 
the common ones. 

According to the ancient rhetoricians, a certain measure 
or verse was by nature appropiated to each particular species 
of writing, as being naturally expressive of that character, 
sentiment, or passion, which ought to predominate in it. 
One verse, they said, was fit for grave, and another for gay 
works, which could not, they thought, be interchanged with¬ 
out the greatest impropriety. The experience of modern 
times, however, seems to contradict this principle, though 
in itself it would appear to be extremely probable. What is 
the burlesque verse in English, is the heroic verse in French. 
The tragedies of Racine, and the Henriad of Voltaire, are 
nearly in the same verse with, 

jLet me have your advice in a weighty affair. 

The burlesque verse in French, on the contrary, is pretty 
much the same with the heroic verse of ten syllables in En¬ 
glish. Custom has made the one nation associate the ideas 
of gravity, sublimity, and seriousness, to that measure which 
the other has connected with whatever is gay, flippant, and 
ludicrous. Nothing would appear more absurd in English, 
than a tragedy written in the Alexandrine verses of the 
French; or in French, than a work of the same kind in 
verses of ten syllables. 

An eminent artist will bring about a considerable change 
in the established modes of each of those arts, and introduce 
a new fashion of writing, music, or architecture. As the 
'dress of an agreeable man of high rank recommends itself, 
and how peculiar and fantastical soever, comes soon to be 
admired and imitated; so the excellencies of an eminent mas- 


Chap. I. 


OF CUSTOM. 


2G9 


ter recommend his peculiarities, and his manner becomes the 
fashionable style in the art which he practises. The taste 
of the Italians in music and architecture has, within these fifty 
years, undergone a considerable change, from imitating the 
peculiarities of some eminent masters in each of those arts. 
Seneca is accused by Quintilian of having corrupted the taste 
of the Romans, and of having introduced a frivolous pretti¬ 
ness in the room of majestic reason and masculine eloquence. 
Sallust and .Tacitus have by others been charged with the 
same accusation, though in a different manner. They gave 
reputation, it is pretended, to a style, which though in the 
highest degree concise, elegant, expressive, and even poetical, 
wanted, however, ease, simplicity, and nature,, and was evi¬ 
dently the production of the most laboured and studied affec¬ 
tation. How many great qualities must that writer possess, 
who can thus render his very faults agreeable? After the 
the praise of refining the taste of a nation, the highest eulogy, 
perhaps, which can be bestowed upon any author, is to say, 
that he corrupted it. In our own language, Mr Pope and 
Dr Swift have each of them introduced a manner different 
from what was practised before, into all works that are writ¬ 
ten in rhyme, the one in long verses, the other in short. 
The quaintness of Butler has given place to the plainness of 
Swift. The rambling freedom of Dryden, and the correct, 
but often tedious and prosaic languor of Addison, are no 
longer the objects of imitation, but all long verses are now 
written after the manner of the nervous precision of Mr 
Pope. 

Neither is it only over the productions of the arts, that 
custom and fashion exert their dominion. They influence 
our judgments, in the same manner, with regard to the beau¬ 
ty of natural objects. What various and opposite forms are 
deemed beautiful in different species of things? The pro¬ 
portions which are admired in one animal, are altogether dif¬ 
ferent from those which are esteemed in another. Every 
class of things has its own peculiar conformation, which is 
approved of, and has a beauty of its own, distinct from that 


OF THE INFLUENCE 


Part V. 


270 

of every other species. It is upon this account that a learned 
Jesuit, father Buffer, has determined that the beauty of every 
object consists in that form and colour, which is most usual 
among things of that particular sort to which it belongs. 
Thus, in the human form, the beauty of each feature lies in 
a certain middle, equally removed from a variety of other 
forms that are ugly. A beautiful nose, for example, is one 
that is neither very long, nor very short, neither very straight, 
nor very crooked, but a sort of middle among all these ex¬ 
tremes, and less different from any one of them, than all of 
them are from one another. It is the form which Nature 
seems to have aimed at in them all, which however, she de¬ 
lates from in a great variety of ways, and very seldom hits 
exactly*, but to which all those deviations still bear a very 
strong resemblance. When a number of drawings are made 
after one pattern, though they may all miss it in some re¬ 
spects, yet they will all resemble it more than they resemble 
one another; the general character of the pattern will run 
through them all; the most singular and odd will be those 
which are most wide of it; and though very few will copy it 
exactly, yet the most accurate delineations will bear a greater 
resemblance to the most careless, than the careless ones will 
bear to one another. In the same manner, in each species 
of creatures, what is most beautiful bears the strongest char¬ 
acters of the general fabric of the species, and has the strong¬ 
est resemblance to the greater part of the individuals with 
which it is classed. Monsters, on the contrary, or what is 
perfectly deformed, are always most singular and odd, and 
have the least resemblance to the generality of that species 
to which they belong. And thus the beauty of each species, 
though in one sense the rarest of all things, because few in¬ 
dividuals hit this middle form exactly, yet in another, is the 
most common, because all the deviations from it resemble it 
more than they resemble one another. The most customary 
form, therefore, is in each species of things, according to him, 
the most beautiful. And hence it is that a certain practice 
and experience in contemplating each species of objects is re- 


Chap. 1. 


OF CUSTOM. 


271 


quisite, before we can judge of its beauty, or know wherein 
the middle and most usual form consists. The nicest judg¬ 
ment concerning the beauty of the human species, will not 
help us to judge of that of flowers, or horses, or any other 
species of things. It is for the same reason that in different 
climates, and where different customs and way of living take 
place, as the generality of any species receives a different con¬ 
formation from those circumstances, so different ideas of its 
beauty prevail. The beauty of a Moorish is not exactly the 
same with that of an English horse. What different ideas 
are formed in different nations concerning the beauty of the 
human shape and countenance ? A fair complexion is a shock¬ 
ing deformity upon the coast of Guinea. Thick lips and a 
flat nose are a beauty. In some nations long ears that hang 
down upon the shoulders are the objects of universal admira¬ 
tion. In China, if a lady’s foot is so large as to be fit to walk 
upon, she is regarded as a monster of ugliness. Some of the 
savage nations in North-America tie four boards round the 
heads of their children, and thus squeeze them, while the 
bones are tender and gristly, into a form that is almost per¬ 
fectly square. Europeans are astonished at the absurd bar¬ 
barity of this practice, to which some missionaries have im¬ 
puted the singular stupidity of those nations among whom it 
prevails. But when they condemn those savages, they do 
reflect that the ladies in Europe had, till within these very 
fews years, been endeavouring, for near a century past, to 
squeeze the beautiful roundness of their natural shape into a 
square form of the same kind. And that, notwithstanding 
the many distortions and diseases which this practice was 
know to occasion, custom had rendered it agreeable among 
some of the most civilized nations which, perhaps, the world 
ever beheld. 

Such is the system of this learned and ingenious Father, 
concerning the nature of beauty; of which the whole charm, 
according to him, would thus seem to arise from its falling 
in with the habits which custom had impressed upon the im¬ 
agination, with regard to things of each particular kind. I 


272 


OF THE INFLUENCE 


Part V. 


cannot, however, be induced to believe that our sense even 
of external beauty is founded altogether on custom. The 
utility of any form, its fitness for the useful purposes for which 
it was intended, evidently recommends it, and renders it a - 
greeable to us, independent of custom. Certain colours are 
more agreeable than others, and give more delight to the eye 
the first time it ever beholds them. A smooth surface is 
more agreeable than a rough one. Variety is more pleasing 
than a tedious undiversified uniformity. Connected variety, 
in which each new appearance seems to be introduced by what 
went before it, and in which all the adjoining parts seem to 
have some natural relation to one another, is more agreeable 
than a disjointed and disorderly assemblage of unconnected 
objects. But though I cannot admit that custom is the sole 
principle of beauty, yet I can so far allow the truth of this 
ingenious system as to grant, that there is scarce any one ex¬ 
ternal form so beautiful as to please, if quite contrary to cus¬ 
tom, and unlike whatever we have been used to in that par¬ 
ticular species of things: or so deformed as not to be agreea¬ 
ble, if custom uniformly supports it, and habituates us to see 
it in every single individual of the kind. 


CHAPTER II. 

Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon Moral 
Sentiments. 

SINCE our sentiments concerning beauty of every kind 
are so much influenced by custom and fashion, it cannot be 
expected that those, concerning the beauty of conduct, should 
be entirely exempted from the dominion of those principles. 
Their influence here, however, seems to be much less than 
it is every where else. There is, perhaps, no form of exter¬ 
nal objects, how absurd and fantastical soever, to which cus¬ 
tom will not reconcile us, or which fashion will not render 




Chap. II. 


OF CUSTOM. 


273 


even agreeable. But the characters and conduct of a Nero, 
or a Claudius, are what no custom will ever reconcile us to, 
what no fashion will ever render agreeable-, but the one will 
always be the object of dread and hatred; the other of scorn 
and derision. The principles of the imagination, upon which 
our sense of beauty depends, are of a very nice and delicate 
nature, and may easily be altered by habit and education: 
but the sentiments of moral approbation and disapprobation, 
are founded on the strongest and most vigorous passions of 
human nature; and though they may be somewhat warpt, 
cannot be entirely perverted. 

But though the influence of custom and fashion upon 
moral sentiments is not altogether so great, it is however 
perfectly similar to what it is every where else. When cus¬ 
tom and fashion coincide with the natural principles of right 
and wrong, they heighten the delicacy of our sentiments, 
and increase our abhorrence for every thing which approach¬ 
es to evil. Those who have been educated in what is really 
good company, not in what is commonly called such, who 
have been accustomed to see nothing in the persons whom 
they esteemed and lived with, but justice, modesty, humani¬ 
ty, and good order; are more shocked with whatever seems 
to be inconsistent with the rules which those virtues pre¬ 
scribe. Those, on the contrary, who have had the misfor¬ 
tune to be brought up amidst violence, licentiousness, false¬ 
hood, and injustice; lose, though not all sense of the impro¬ 
priety of such conduct, yet all sense of its dreadful enormi¬ 
ty, or of the vengeance and punishment due to it. They 
have been familiarized with it from their infancy, custom has 
rendered it habitual to them, and they are very apt to re¬ 
gard it as, what is called, the way of the world, something 
which either may, or must be practised, to hinder us from 
being the dupes of our own integrity. 

Fashion too, will sometimes give reputation to a certain 
degree of disorder, and, on the contrary, discountenance 
qualities which deserve esteem. In the reign of Charles II. 
a decree of licentiousness was deemed the characteristic of ? 

o 

2 M 


274 


OF THE INFLUENCE 


Part V. 


liberal education. It was connected, according to the no¬ 
tions of those times, with generosity, sincerity, magnanimi¬ 
ty, loyalty, and proved that the person who acted in this 
manner was a gentleman, and not a Puritan. Severity of 
manners, and regularity of conduct, on the other hand, were 
altogether unfashionable, and were connected, in the imagi¬ 
nation of that age, with cant, cunning, hypocrisy, and low 
manners. To superficial minds, the vices of the great seem 
at all times agreeable. They connect them, not only with 
the splendour of fortune, but with many superior virtues, 
which they ascribe to their superiors; with the spirit of free¬ 
dom and independency, with frankness, generosity, humani¬ 
ty and politeness. The virtues of the inferior ranks of peo¬ 
ple, on the contrary, their parsimonious frugality, their pain¬ 
ful industry, and rigid adherence to rules, seem to them mean 
and disagreeable. They connect them, both with the mean¬ 
ness of the station to which those qualities commonly be¬ 
long, and with many great vices, which, they suppose, usual¬ 
ly accompany them; such as an abject, cowardly, ill-natured, 
lying, pilfering disposition. 

The objects with which men in the different professions 
and states of life are conversant, being very different, and 
habituating them to very different passions, naturally form 
in them very different characters and manners. We expect 
in each rank and profession, a degree of those manners, 
which, experience has taught us, belong to it. But as in 
each species of things, we are particularly pleased with the 
middle conformation, which, in every part and feature, a- 
grees most exactly with the general standard which nature 
seems to have established for things of that kind; so in each 
rank, or, if I may say so, in each species of men, we are par¬ 
ticularly pleased, if they have neither too much, nor too lit¬ 
tle of the character which usually accompanies their particu¬ 
lar condition and situation. A man, we say, should look 
like his trade and profession; yet the pedantry of every pro¬ 
fession is disagreeable. The different periods of life have, 
for the same reason, different manners assigned to them. 


Chap. II. 


OF CUSTOM. 


275 


We expect in old age, that gravity and sedateness which its 
infirmities, its long experience, and its worn-out sensibility, 
seem to render both natural and respectable; and we lay our ac*» 
count to find in youth that sensibility, that gaiety and sprightly 
vivacity which experience teaches us to expect from the lively 
impressions that all interesting objects are apt to make upon 
the tender and unpractised senses of that early period of life. 
Each of those two ages, however, may easily have too much 
of these peculiarities which belong to it. The flirting levity 
of youth, and the immoveable insensibility of old age, are 
are equally disagreeable. The young, according to the com-* 
mon saying, are most agreeable when in their behaviour there 
is something of the manners of the old, and the old, when 
they retain something of the gaiety of the young. Either of 
them, however, may easily have too much of the manners of 
the other. The extreme coldness, and dull formality, which 
are pardoned in old age, make youth ridiculous. The levi» 
ty, the carelessness, and the vanity, which are indulged in 
youth, render old age contemptible. 

The peculiar character and manners which we are led by 
custom to- appropriate to each rank and profession, have 
sometimes perhaps a propriety independent of custom*, and 
are what we should approve of for their own sakes, if we 
took into consideration all the different circumstances which 
naturally affect those in each different state of life. The 
propriety of a person’s behaviour, depends not upon its suit¬ 
ableness to any one circumstance of his situation, but to all 
the circumstances, which, when we bring his case home to 
ourselves, we feel, should naturally call upon his attention. 
If he appears to be so much occupied by any one of them, 
as entirely to neglect the rest, we disapprove of his conduct, 
as something which we cannot entirely go along with, be¬ 
cause not properly adjusted to all the circumstances of his 
situation: Yet, perhaps, the emotion he expresses for the 
object which principally interests him, does not exceed what 
we should entirely sympathize with, and approve of, in one 
whose attention was not required by any other thing. A pa- 

2 m2 


276 


OF THE INFLUENCE 


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rent in private life might, upon the loss of an only son, ex¬ 
press without blame a degree of grief and tenderness, which 
would be unpardonable in a general at the head of an army, 
when glory and the public safety demanded so great a part 
of his attention. As different objects ought, upon common 
occasions, to occupy the attention of men of different profes¬ 
sions, so different passions ought naturally to become habi¬ 
tual to them-, and when we bring home to ourselves their 
situation in this particular respect, we must be sensible, that 
every occurrence should naturally affect them more or less, 
according as the emotion which it excites, coincides or disa¬ 
grees with the iixt habit and temper of their minds. We 
cannot expect the same sensibility to the gay pleasures and 
amusements of life in a clergyman, which we lay our account 
with in an officer. The man whose peculiar occupation is to 
keep the world in mind of that awful futurity which awaits 
them, who is to announce what may be the fatal consequen¬ 
ces of every deviation from the rules of duty, and who is 
himself to set the example of the most exact conformity, 
seems to be the messenger of tidings, which cannot, in pro¬ 
priety, be delivered either with levity or indifference. His 
mind is supposed to be continually occupied with what is too 
grand and solemn to leave any room for the impressions of 
those frivolous objects which fill up the attention of the dis¬ 
sipated and the gay. We readily feel therefore, that, inde¬ 
pendent of custom, there is a propriety in the manners which 
custom has allotted to this profession; and that nothing can 
be more suitable to the character of a clergyman, than that 
grave, that austere and abstracted severity, which we are ha¬ 
bituated to expect in his behaviour. These reflections are so 
very obvious, that there is scarce any man so inconsiderate, as 
not, at some time, to have made them, and to have account¬ 
ed to himself in this manner for his approbation of the usual 
character of this order. 

The foundation of the customary character of some other 
professions is not so obvious, and our approbation of it is 
founded entirely in habit, without being either confirmed, 


OF CUSTOM. 


Chap. II. 


277 


or enlivened by any reflections of this kind. We are led by 
custom, for example, to annex the character of gaiety, levity, 
and sprightly freedom, as well as of some degree of dissipa¬ 
tion, to the military profession. Yet, if we were to consi¬ 
der what mood or tone of temper would be most suitable to 
this situation, we should be apt to determine, perhaps, that 
the most serious and thoughtful turn of mind would best be¬ 
come those whose lives are continually exposed to uncom¬ 
mon danger, and who should therefore be more constantly 
occupied with the thoughts of death and its consequences 
than other men. It is this very circumstance, however, 
which is not improbably the occasion why the contrary turn 
of mind prevails so much among men of this profession. It 
requires so great an effort to conquer the fear of death, 
when we survey it with steadiness and attention, that those 
who are constantly exposed to it, find it easier to turn away 
their thoughts from it altogether, to wrap themselves up in 
careless security and indifference, and to plunge themselves, 
for this purpose, into every sort of amusement and dissipa¬ 
tion. A camp is not the element of a thoughtful or a me¬ 
lancholy man: persons of that cast, indeed, are often abun¬ 
dantly determined, and are capable, by a great effort, of go¬ 
ing on with inflexible resolution to the most unavoidable 
death. But to be exposed to continual, though less immi¬ 
nent danger, to be obliged to exert, for a long time, a de¬ 
gree of this effort, exhausts and depresses the mind, and 
renders it incapable of all happiness and enjoyment. The 
gay and careless, who have occasion to make no effort at all, 
who fairly resolve never to look before them, but to lose in 
continual pleasures’ and amusements all anxiety about their 
situation, more easily support such circumstances. Whene¬ 
ver, by any peculiar circumstances, an officer has no reason 
to lay his account with being exposed to any common dan¬ 
ger, he is very apt to lose the gaiety and dissipated thought¬ 
lessness of his character. The captain of a city guard is com¬ 
monly as sober, careful, and penurious an animal as the rest 
of his fellow-citizens. A long peace is, for the same reason, 


278 


OP THE INFLUENCE 


Part V. 


very apt to diminish the difference between the civil and the 
military character. The ordinary situation, however, of men 
of this profession, renders gaiety, and a degree of dissipation, 
so much their usual character; and custom has, in our ima¬ 
gination, so strongly connected this character with this state 
of life, that we are very apt to despise any man, whose pe¬ 
culiar humour or situation renders him incapable of acquir¬ 
ing it. We laugh at the grave and careful faces of a city 
guard, which so little resemble those of their profession. 
They themselves seem often to be ashamed of the regularity 
of their own manners, and, not to be out of the fashion of 
their trade, are fond of affecting that levity, which is by no 
means natural to them. Whatever is the deportment which 
we have been accustomed to see in a respectable order of men, 
it comes to be so associated in our imagination with that or¬ 
der, that whenever we see the one, we lay our account that 
we are to meet with the other, and when disappointed, miss 
something which we expected to find. We are embarrassed, 
and put to a stand, and know not how to address ourselves 
to a character, which plainly affects to be of a different spe¬ 
cies from those with which we should have been disposed to 
class it. 

The different situations of different ages and countries are 
apt, in the same manner, to give different characters to the 
generality of those who live in them, and their sentiments 
concerning the particular degree of each quality, that is ei¬ 
ther blameable or praise-worthy, vary, according to that de¬ 
gree which is usual in their own country, and in their own 
times. That degree of politeness, which would be highly 
esteemed, perhaps, would be thought effeminate adulation, 
in Russia, would be regarded as rudeness and barbarism at 
the court of France. That degree of order and' frugality, 
which, in a Polish nobleman, would be considered as exces¬ 
sive parsimony, would be regarded as extravagance in a ci¬ 
tizen of Amsterdam. Every age and country look upon that 
degree of each quality, which is commonly to be met with in 
those who are esteemed among themselves, as the golden 


Chap. II. 


OF CUSTOM. 


279 


mean of that particular talent or virtue. And as this varies, 
according as their different circumstances render different 
qualities more or less habitual to them, their sentiments con¬ 
cerning the exact propriety of character and behaviour vary 
accordingly. 

Among civilized nations, the virtues which are founded 
upon humanity, are more cultivated than those which are 
founded upon self-denial and the command of the passions. 
Among rude and barbarous nations, it is quite otherwise, 
the virtues of self-denial are more cultivated than those of 
humanity. The general security and happiness which pre¬ 
vail in ages of civility and politeness, afford little exercise to 
the contempt of danger, to patience in enduring labour, 
hunger, and pain. Poverty may easily be avoided, and the 
contempt of it therefore almost ceases to be a virtue. The 
abstinence from pleasure becomes less necessary, and the 
mind is more at liberty to unbend itself, and to indulge its 
natural inclinations in all those particular respects. 

Among savages and barbarians it is quite otherwise. Eve¬ 
ry savage undergoes a sort of Spartan discipline, and by the 
necessity of his situation is inured to every sort of hardship. 
He is in continual danger: he is often exposed to the great¬ 
est extremities of hunger, and frequently dies of pure want. 
His circumstances not only habituate him to every sort of 
distress, but teach him to give way to none of the passions 
which that distress is apt to excite. He can expect from his 
countrymen no sympathy or indulgence for such weakness. 
Before we can feel much for others, we must in some mea¬ 
sure be at ease ourselves. If our own misery pinches us ve¬ 
ry severely, we have no leisure to attend to that of our neigh¬ 
bour: and all savages are too much occupied with their own 
wants and necessities, to give much attention to those of a- 
nother person. A savage, therefore, whatever be the nature 
of his distress, expects no sympathy from those about him, 
and disdains, upon that account, to expose himself, by allow¬ 
ing the least weakness to escape him. His passions, how fu¬ 
rious and violent soever, are never permitted to disturb the 


280 


OF THE INFLUENCE 


Part V. 


serenity of his countenance or the composure of his conduct 
and behaviour. The savages in North America, we are told, 
assume upon all occasions the greatest indifference, and would 
think themselves degraded if they should ever appear in any 
respect to be overcome, either by love, or grief, or resent¬ 
ment. Their magnanimity and self-command, in % this re¬ 
spect, are almost beyond the conception of Europeans. In a 
country in which all men are upon a level, with regard to 
rank and fortune, it might be expected that the mutual in¬ 
clinations of the two parties should be the only thing consi¬ 
dered in marriages, and should be indulged without any sort 
of control. This, however, is the country in which all mar¬ 
riages, without exception, are made up by the parents, and 
in which a young man would think himself disgraced for e- 
ver, if he shewed the least preference of one woman above 
another, or did not express the most complete indifference, 
both about the time when, and the person to whom, he was 
to be married. The weakness of love, which is so much in¬ 
dulged in ages of humanity and politeness, is regarded among 
savages as the most unpardonable effeminacy. Even after 
the marriage, the two parties seem to be ashamed of a con¬ 
nexion which is founded upon so sordid a necessity. They 
do not live together. They see one another by stealth only. 
They both continue to dwell in the houses of their respective 
fathers, and the open cohabitation of the two sexes, which 
is permitted without blame in all other countries, is here 
considered as the most indecent and unmanly sensuality. 
Nor is it only over this agreeable passion that they exert 
this absolute self-command. They often bear, in the sight of 
all their countrymen, with injuries, reproach, and the gross¬ 
est insults, with the appearance of the greatest insensibility, 
and without expressing the smallest resentment. When a 
savage is made prisoner of war, and receives, as is usual, the 
sentence of death from his conquerors, he hears it without 
expressing any emotion, and afterwards submits to the most 
dreadful torments, without ever bemoaning himself, or dis¬ 
covering any other passion but contempt of his enemies. 


Chap. II. 


OF CUSTOM. 


281 


While lie is hung by the shoulders over a slow fire, he de¬ 
rides his tormentors, and tells them with how much more in¬ 
genuity he himself had tormented such of their countrymen 
as had fallen into his hands. After he has been scorched 
and burnt, and lacerated in all the most tender and sensible 
parts of his body for several hours together, he is often al¬ 
lowed, in order to prolong his misery, a short respite, and is 
taken down from the stake: he employs this in talking upon 
all indifferent subjects, inquires after the news of the coun¬ 
try, and seems indifferent about nothing but his own situa¬ 
tion. The spectators express the same insensibility; the sight 
of so horrible an object seems to make no impression upon 
them; they scarce look at the prisoner, except when they 
lend a hand to torment him. At other times they smoke 
tobacco, and amuse themselves with any common object, as 
if no such matter was going on. Every savage is said to 
prepare himself from his earliest youth for this dreadful end. 
He composes, for this purpose, what they call the song of 
death, a song which he is to sing when he has fallen into 
the hands of his enemies, and is expiring under the tortures 
which they inflict upon him. It consists of insults upon his 
tormentors, and expresses the highest contempt of death and 
pain. He sings this song upon all extraordinary occasions, 
when he goes out to war, when he meets his enemies in the 
field, or whenever he has a mind to shew that he has famili¬ 
arised his imagination to the most dreadful misfortunes, and 
that no human event can daunt his resolution, or alter his 
purpose. The same contempt of death and torture prevails 
among all other savage nations. There is not a negro from 
the coast of Africa which does not, in this respect, possess a 
degree of magnanimity which the soul of his sordid master 
is too often scarce capable of conceiving. Fortune never ex¬ 
erted more cruelly her empire over mankind, than when she 
subjected those nations of heroes to the refuse of the jails of 
Europe, to wretches who possess the virtues neither of the 
countries which they come from, nor of those which they 


282 


OP THE INFLUENCE 


Part V. 


they go to, and whose levity, brutality, and baseness, so just¬ 
ly expose them to the contempt of the vanquished. 

This heroic and unconquerable firmness, which the cus¬ 
tom and education of his country demand of every savage, 
is not required of those who are brought up to live in civil¬ 
ized societies. If . hese last complain when they are in pain, 
if they grieve when they are in distress, if they allow them¬ 
selves either to be overcome by love, or to be discomposed 
by anger, they are easily pardoned. Such weaknesses are 
not apprehended to affect the essential parts of their charac¬ 
ter. As long as they do notallow themselves to be trans¬ 
ported to do any thing contrary to justice or humanity, they 
lose but little reputation, though the serenity of their coun¬ 
tenance, or the composure of their discourse and behaviour, 
should be somewhat ruffled and disturbed. A humane and 
polished people, who have more sensibility to the passions of 
others, can more readily enter into an animated and passion¬ 
ate behaviour, and can more easily pardon some little excess. 
The person principally concerned is sensible of this; and being 
assured of the equity of his judges, indulges himself in stronger 
expressions or passion, and is less afraid of exposing himself 
to their contempt by the violence of his emotions. We can 
venture to express more emotion in the presence of a friend 
than in that of a stranger, because we expect more indulgence 
from the one than from the other. And in the same man¬ 
ner, the rules of decorum among civilized nations, admit of 
a more animated behaviour, than is approved of among bar¬ 
barians. The first converse together with the openness of 
friends; the second, with the reserve of strangers. The e- 
motion and vivacity with which the French and the Italians, 
the two most polished nations upon the continent, express 
themselves on occasions that are at all interesting, surprise at 
first those strangers who happen to be travelling among them, 
and who, having been educated among a people of duller 
sensibility, cannot enter into this passionate behaviour, of 
which they have never seen any example in their own coun¬ 
try. A young French nobleman wiil weep in the presence 


Chap. II. 


OF CUSTOM. 


233 


of the whole court upon being refused a regiment. An Ita¬ 
lian, says the abbot Du Bos, expresses more emotion on be¬ 
ing condemned in a fine of twenty shillings, than an English¬ 
man on receiving the sentence of death. Cicero, in the times 
of the highest Roman politeness, could, without degrading 
himself, weep with all the bitterness of sorrow in the sight of 
the whole senate and the whole people; as it is evident he must 
have done in the end of almost every oration. The orators 
of the earlier and ruder ages of Rome could not probably, 
consistent with the manners of the times, have expressed 
themselves with so much emotion. It would have been re¬ 
garded, I suppose, as a violation of nature and propriety in 
the Scipios, in the Leliuses, and in the elder Cato, to have 
exposed so much tenderness to the view of the public. Those 
ancient warriors could express themselves with order, gravi¬ 
ty, and good judgment *, but are said to have been strangers 
to that sublime and passionate eloquence which was first in¬ 
troduced into Rome, not many years before the birth of Ci¬ 
cero, by the two Gracchi, by Crassus, and by Sulpitius. 
This animated eloquence, which has been long practised, with 
or without success, both in France and Italy, is but just be¬ 
ginning to be introduced into England. So wide is the dif¬ 
ference between the degrees of self-command which are re¬ 
quired in civilized and in barbarous nations, and by such 
different standards do they judge of the propriety of beha¬ 
viour. 

This difference gives occasion to many others that are 
not less essential. A polished people being accustomed to 
give way, in some measure, to the movements of nature, be¬ 
come frank, open, and sincere. Barbarians, on the contra¬ 
ry, being obliged to smother and conceal the appearance of 
every passion, necessarily acquire the habits of falsehood and 
dissimulation. It is observed by all those who have been 
conversant with savage nations, whether in Asia, Africa, or 
America, that they are all equally impenetrable, and that, 
when they have a mind to conceal the truth, no examina¬ 
tion is capable of drawing it from them. 'They cannot be 

2 n 2 


OF TlfR INFLUENCE 


Part V. 


284 


trepanned by the most artful questions. Tlie torture itself 
is incapable of making them confess any thing which they have 
no mind to tell. The passions of a savage too, though they 
never express themselves by any outward emotion, but lie con¬ 
cealed in the breast of the sufferer, arc, notwithstanding, all 
mounted to the highest pitch of fury. Though he seldom 
shews any symptoms of anger, yet his vengeance, when lie 
comes to give way to it, is always sanguinary and dreadful. The 
least affront drives him to despair. His countenance and dis¬ 
course indeed are still sober and composed, and express no¬ 
thing but the most perfect tranquillity of ihind: but his ac¬ 
tions are often the most furious and violent. Among the 
North Americans it is not uncommon for persons of the ten- 
derest age and mqre fearful sex, to drown themselves upon 
receiving only a slight reprimand from their mothers, and 
this too without expressing any passion, or saying any thing, 
except, you shall no longer have a daughter . In civilized na¬ 
tions the passions of men arc not commonly so furious or so 
desperate. They are often clamorous and noisy, but arc 
seldom very hurtful; and seem frequently to aim at no other 
satisfaction, but that of convincing the spectator, that they 
are in the right to be so much moved, and of procuring his 
sympathy and approbation. 

All these effects of custom and fashion, however, upon 
the moral sentiments of mankind, are inconsiderable, in com¬ 
parison of those which they give occasion to in some other 
cases; and it is not concerning the general style of charac¬ 
ter and behaviour, that those principles produce the great¬ 
est perversion of judgment, but concerning the propriety or 
impropriety of particular usages. 

The different manners which custom teaches us to ap¬ 
prove of in the different professions and states of life, do 
not concern things of the greatest importance. We expect 
truth and justice from an old man as well as from a young, 
from a clergyman as well as from an officer; and it is in 
matters of small moment only that we look for the distin¬ 
guishing marks of their respective characters. With regard 


Chap. II. 


01/ custom. 


285 


to these two, there is often some unobserved circumstance 
which, if it was attended to, would show us, that, indepen¬ 
dent of custom, there was a propriety in the character which 
custom had taught us to allot to each profession. We can¬ 
not complain, therefore, in this case, that the perversion of 
natural sentiment is very great. Though the manners of 
different nations require different degrees of the same qua¬ 
lity, in the character which they think worthy of esteem, 
yet the worst that can be said to happen even here, is, that 
the duties of one virtue are sometimes extended so as to en¬ 
croach a little upon the precincts of some other. The rus¬ 
tic hospitality that is in fashion among the Poles encroaches, 
perhaps, a little upon oeconomy and good order; and the 
frugality that is esteemed in Holland, upon generosity and 
good-fellowship. The hardiness demanded of savages di¬ 
minishes their humanity; and, perhaps, the delicate sensi¬ 
bility requii ''d in civilized nations sometimes destroys the 
masculine firmness of the character. In general, the style 
of manners which takes place in any nation, may commonly 
upon the whole be said to be that which is most suitable to 
the circumstances of a savage; sensibility to those of one who 
lives in a very civilized society. Even here, therefore, we 
cannot complain that the moral sentiments of men are very 
grossly perverted. 

It is not therefore in the general style of conduct or be¬ 
haviour that custom authorises the wildest departure from 
what is the natural propriety of action. With regard to par¬ 
ticular usages, its influence is often much more destructive 
of good morals, and it is capable of establishing, as lawful 
and blameless, particular actions, which shock the plainest 
principles of right and wrong. 

Can there be greater barbarity, for example, than to 
hurt an infant? Its helplessness, its innocence, its amiable¬ 
ness, call forth the compassion, even of an enemy, and not 
to spare that tender age is regarded as the most furious ef¬ 
fort of an enraged and cruel conqueror. What then should 
we imagine must be the heart of a parent who could injure 


286 


OF THE INFLUENCE 


Part V. 


that weakness which even a furious enemy is afraid to vio¬ 
late? Yet the exposition, that is, the murder of new-born 
infants, was a practice allowed of in almost all the states of 
Greece, even among the polite and civilized Athenians; and 
whenever the circumstances of the parent rendered it incon¬ 
venient to bring up the child, to abandon it to hunger, or 
to wild beasts, was regarded without blame or censure. 
This practice had probably begun in times of the most sa¬ 
vage barbarity. The imaginations of men had been first 
made familiar with it in that earliest period of society, and 
the uniform continuance of the custom had hindered them 
afterwards from perceiving its enormity. We find, at this 
day, that this practice prevails among all savage nations; and 
in that rudest and lowest state of society is undoubtedly more 
pardonable than in any other. The extreme indigence of a 
savage is often such that he himself is frequently exposed to 
the greatest extremity of hunger, he often dies of pure want, 
and it is frequently impossible for him to support both 
himself and his child. We cannot wonder, therefore, that 
in this case he should abandon it. One who, in flying from 
an enemy, whom it was impossible to resist, should throw 
down his infant, because it retarded his flight, would surely 
be excusable; since, by attempting to save it, he could only 
hope for the consolation of dying with it. That in this state 
of society, therefore, a parent should be allowed to judge 
whether he can bring up his child, ought not to surprise us 
so greatly. In the latter ages of Greece, however, the same 
thing was permitted from views of remote interest or conve¬ 
nience, which could by no means excuse it. Uninterrupt¬ 
ed custom had by this time so thoroughly authorised the 
practice, that not only the loose maxims of the world tolera¬ 
ted this barbarous prerogative, but even the doctrine of phi¬ 
losophers, which ought to have been more just and accurate, 
was led away by the established custom, and upon this, as 
upon many other occasions, instead of censuring, supported 
the horrible abuse, by far-fetched considerations to encour- 
age. The humane Plato is of the same opinion, and, with 


Chap. II. 


OF CUSTOM. 


287 


all that love of mankind which seems to animate all his writ¬ 
ings, no where marks this practice with disapprobation. 
When custom can give sanction to so dreadful a violation of 
humanity, we may well imagine that there is scarce any par¬ 
ticular practice so gross which it cannot authorise. Such a 
thing, we hear men every day saying, is commonly done, 
and they seem to think this a sufficient apology for what, in 
itself, is the most unjust and unreasonable conduct. 

There is an obvious reason why custom should never 
pervert our sentiments with regard to the general style and 
character of conduct and behaviour, in the same degree as 
with regard to the propriety or unlawfulness of particular u- 
sages. No society could subsist a moment, in which the u- 
sual strain of men’s conduct and behaviour was of a piece 
with the horrible practice I have just now mentioned. 


THE 


THEORY 

O F 

MORALE SEJVTIMEJVTS. 

— 1 • *<s>® |0 '<•>»« 


PART VI. 

Of the Character of Virtue. 


Consisting of three Sections. 


—*►©«-— 

INTRODUCTION. 

WHEN we consider the character of any individual, we 
naturally view it under two different aspects; first, as it may 
affect his own happiness; and secondly, as it may affect that 
of other people. 


Sect. I. 


OF THE CHARACTER OF VIRTUE. 


289 


SECTION I. 


OF THE CHARACTER OF THE INDIVIDUAL, SO FAR AS IT AFFECTS 
HIS OWN happiness; or of prudence. 


The preservation and healthful state of the body seem to 
be the objects which Nature first recommends to the care of 
every individual. The appetites of hunger and thirst, the 
agreeable or disagreeable sensations of pleasure and pain, 
of heat and cold, &c. may be considered as lessons delivered 
by the voice of Nature herself, directing him what he ought 
to chuse, and what he ought to avoid, for this purpose. 
The first lessons which he is taught by those to whom his 
childhood is entrusted, tend, the greater part of them, to 
the .same purpose. Their principal object is to teach him 
how to keep out of harm’s way. 

As he grows up, he soon learns that some care and fore¬ 
sight are necessary for providing the means of gratifying 
those natural appetites, of procuring pleasure and avoiding 
pain, of procuring the agreeable and avoiding the disagreea¬ 
ble temperature of heat and cold. In the proper direction 
of this care and foresight consists the art of preserving and 
increasing what is called his external fortune. 

Though it is in order to supply the necessities and con¬ 
veniences of the body, that the advantages of external fortune 
are originally recommended to us, yet we cannot live long 
in the world without perceiving that the respect of our equals, 
our credit and rank in the society we live in, depend verj" 
much upon the degree in which we possess, or are supposed 
to possess, those advantages. The desire of becoming the 
proper objects of this respect, of deserving and obtaining 
this credit and rank among our equals, is, perhaps, the strong¬ 
est of all our desires, and our anxiety to obtain the advanta- 

2 o 


290 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


ges of fortune is accordingly much more excited and irritated 
by this desire, than by that of supplying all the necessities 
and conveniencies of the body, which are always very easily 
supplied. 

Our rank and credit among our equals, too, depend very 
much upon, what, perhaps, a virtuous man would wish them 
to depend entirely, our character and conduct, or upon the 
confidence, esteem, and good-will, which these naturally ex¬ 
cite in the people we live with. 

The care of the health, of the fortune, of the rank and 
reputation of the individual, the objects upon which his com¬ 
fort and happiness in this life are supposed principally to de¬ 
pend, is considered as the proper business of that virtue which 
is commonly called Prudence. 

We suffer more, it has already been observed, when we 
fall from a better to a worse situation, than we ever enjoy 
when we rise from a worse to a better. Security therefore, is 
the first and the principle object of Prudence. It is averse 
to expose our health, our fortune, our rank, or reputation, to 
any sort of hazard. It is rather cautious than enterprising, 
and more anxious to preserve the advantages which we al¬ 
ready possess, than forward to prompt us to the acquisition 
of still greater advantages. The methods of improving our 
fortune, which it principally recommends to us, are those 
which expose to no loss or hazard; real knowledge and skill 
in our trade or profession, assiduity and industry in the ex¬ 
ercise of it, frugality, and even some degree of parsimony, 
in all our expences. 

The prudent man always studies seriously and earnestly 
to understand whatever he professes to understand, and not 
merely to persuade other people that he understands it; and 
though his talents may not always be very brilliant, they are 
always perfectly genuine. Pie neither endeavours to impose 
upon you by the cunning devices of an artful impostor, nor 
by the arrogant airs of an assuming pedant, nor by the con¬ 
fident assertions of a superficial and impudent pretender. 
He is not ostentatious, even of the abilities which he really 


Sect. I. 


OF VIRTUE, 


291 


possesses. His conservation is simple and modest, and lie 
is averse to all the quackish arts by which other people so 
frequently thrust themselves into public notice and reputation. 
For reputation in his profession he is naturally disposed to 
rely a good deal upon the solidity of his knowledge and abili¬ 
ties; and he does not always think of cultivating the favour 
of those little clubs and cabals, who in the superior arts and 
sciences, so often erect themselves into the supreme judges 
of merit; and who make it their business to celebrate the ta- 
lents and virtues of one another, and to decry whatever can 
come into competition with them. If he ever connects him¬ 
self with any society of this kind, it is merely in self-defence, 
not with a view to impose upon the public, but to hinder 
the public from being imposed upon, to his disadvantage, 
by the clamours, the whispers, or the intrigues, either of 
that particular society, or of some other of the same kind. 

The prudent man is ahyays sincere, and feels horror at the 
very thought of exposing himself to the disgrace which at¬ 
tends upon the detection of falsehood. But though always 
sincere, he is not always frank and open; and though he ne¬ 
ver tells any thing but the truth, he does not always think 
himself bound, when not properly called upon, to tell the 
whole truth. As he is cautious in his actions, so he is reserv¬ 
ed in his speech; and never rashly or unnecessarily obtrudes, 
his opinion concerning either things or persons. 

The prudent man, though not always distinguished by the 
most exquisite sensibility, is always very capable of friend¬ 
ship. But his friendship is not that ardent and passionate, 
but too often transitory affection, which appears so delicious 
to the generosity of youth and inexperience. It is a sedate, 
but steady and faithful attachment to a few well-tried and 
well-chosen companions; in the choice of whom he is not 
guided by the giddy admiration of shining accomplishments, 
but by the sober esteem of modesty, discretion, and good con¬ 
duct. But though capable of friendship, he is not always 
much disposed to general sociality. He rarely frequents, 
and more rarely figures in those convivial societies which are 

2 o 2 


292 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


distinguished for the jollity and gaiety of their conversation. 
Their way of life might too often interfere with the regularity 
of his temperance, might interrupt the steadiness of his in¬ 
dustry, or break in upon the strictness of his frugality. 

B.ut though his conversation may not always be very 
sprightly or diverting, it is always perfectly inoffensive. He 
hates the thought of being guilty of any petulence or rudeness. 
He never assumes impertinently over any body, and, upon 
all common occasions, is willing to place himself rather below 
than above his equals. Both in his conduct and conversation, 
he is an exact observer of decency, and respects with an al¬ 
most religious scrupulosity, all the established decorums and 
ceremonials of society. And, in this respect, he sets a much 
better example than has frequently been done by men of 
much more splendid talents and virtues; who, in all ages 
from that of Socrates and Aristippus, down to that of Dr 
Swift and Voltaire, and from that of Phillip and Alexander 
the Great, down to that of the great Czar Peter of Muscovy, 
have too often distinguished themselves by the most impro¬ 
per and even insolent contempt of all the ordinary decorums 
of life and conversation, and who have thereby set the most 
pernicious example to those who wish to resemble them, and 
who too often content themselves with imitating their follies, 
without even attempting to attain their perfections. 

In the steadiness of his industry and frugality, in his stead¬ 
ily sacrificing the ease and enjoyment of the present moment 
for the probable expectation of the still greater ease and en¬ 
joyment of a more distant but more lasting period of time, 
the prudent man is always both supported and rewarded by 
the entire approbation of the impartial spectator, and of the 
representative of the impartial spectator, the man within the 
breast. The impartial spectator does not feel himself worn 
out by the present labour of those whose conduct he surveys; 
nor does he feel himself solicited by the importunate calls of 
their present appetites. To him their present, and what is 
likely to be their future situation, are very nearly the same: 
he sees them nearly at the same distance, and is affected by 


Sect. I. 


OF VIRTUE. 


293 


them very nearly in the same manner. He knows, however, 
that to the persons principally concerned, they are very far 
from being the same, and that they naturally affect them in 
a very different manner. He cannot therefore but approve, 
and even applaud, that proper exertion of self command, 
which enables them to act as if their present and their future 
situation affected them nearly in the same manner in which 
they affect him. 

The man who lives within his income, is naturally content¬ 
ed with his situation, which by continual, though small accu¬ 
mulations, is growing better and better every day. He is 
enabled gradually to relax, both in the rigour of his parsi¬ 
mony, and in the severity of his application; and he feels 
with double satisfaction this gradual increase of ease and en¬ 
joyment, from having felt before the hardship which attend¬ 
ed the %vant of them. He has no anxiety to change so com¬ 
fortable a situation, and does not go in quest of new enter¬ 
prises and adventures, which might endanger, but could not 
well increase, the secure tranquillity which he actually enjoys. 
If he enters into any new projects or enterprises, they are like¬ 
ly to be well concerted and well prepared. He can never 
be hurried or drove into them by any necessity, but has al¬ 
ways time and leisure to deliberate soberly and coolly con¬ 
cerning what are likely to be their consequences. 

The prudent man is not willing to subject himself to any 
responsibility which his duty does not impose upon him. He 
is not a bustler in business where he has no concern; is not 
a meddler in other people's affairs; is not a professed coun¬ 
sellor or adviser, who obtrudes his advice where nobody is 
asking it. He confines himself, as much as his duty will 
permit, to his own affairs, and has no taste for that foolish 
importance which many people wish to derive from appearing 
to have some influence in the management of those of other 
people. He is averse to enter into any party disputes, hates 
faction, and is not always very forward to listen to the voice 
even of noble and great ambition. When distinctly called 
upon, he will not decline the service of his country, but he 


29* 


OF TIIE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


will not cabal in order to force himself into it, and would be 
much better pleased that the public business were well man¬ 
aged by some other person, than that he himself should have 
the trouble, and incur the responsibility, of managing it. In 
the bottom of his heart he would prefer the undisturbed en¬ 
joyment of secure tranquillity, not only to all the vain splen¬ 
dour of successful ambition, but to the real and solid glory of 
performing the greatest and most magnanimous actions. 

Prudence, in short, when directed merely to the care of 
the health, of the fortune, and of the rank and reputation 
of the individual, though it is regarded as a most respectable, 
and even in some degree, as an amiable and agreeable quality, 
yet it never is considered as one, either as the most endear¬ 
ing, or of the most enobling of the virtues. It commands a 
certain cold esteem, but seems not entitled to any very ardent 
love or admiration. 

Wise and judicious conduct, when directed to greater and 
nobler purposes than the care of the health, the fortune, the 
rank and reputation of the individual, is frequently and very 
properly called prudence. We talk of the prudence of the 
great general, of the great statesman, of the great legislator. 
Prudence is, in all these cases, combined with many greater 
and more splendid virtues, with valour, with extensive and 
strong benevolence, with a sacred regard to the rules of jus¬ 
tice, and all these supported by a proper degree of self-com¬ 
mand. This superior prudence, when carried to the highest 
degree or perfection, necessarily supposes the art, the talent, 
and the habit or disposition of acting with the most perfect 
propriety in every possible circumstance and situation. It 
necessarily supposes the utmost perfection of all the intellec¬ 
tual and of all the moral virtues. It is the best head joined 
to the best heart. It is the most perfect wisdom combined 
with the most perfect virtue. It constitutes very nearly the 
character of the Academical or Peripatetic sage, as the infe¬ 
rior prudence does that of the Epicurean. 

Mere imprudence, or the mere want of the capacity to 
take care of one’s self, is, with the generous and humane, the 


Sect. I. 


OF VIRTUE. 


29 5 


object of compassion*, with those of less delicate sentiments 
of neglect, or, at worst, of contempt, but never of hatred or 
indignation. When combined with other vices, however, it 
aggravates in the highest degree the infamy and disgrace 
which would otherwise attend them. The artful knave, whose 
dexterity and address exempt him, though not from strong 
suspicions, yet from punishment or distinct detection, is too 
often received in the world with an indulgence which he bv 
no means deserves. The awkward and foolish one, who, for 
want of this dexterity and address, is convicted and brought 
to punishment, is the object of universal hatred, contempt, 
and derision. In countries where great crimes frequently 
pass unpunished, the most atrocious actions become almost 
familiar, and cease to impress the people with that horror 
which is universally felt in countries where an exact admin¬ 
istration of justice takes takes place. The injustice is the 
same in both countries; but the imprudence is often very dif¬ 
ferent. In the latter, great crimes are evidently great fol¬ 
lies. In the former, they are not always considered as such. 
In Italy, during the greater part of the sixteenth century, as¬ 
sassinations, murders, and even murders under trust, seem 
to have been almost familiar among the superior ranks of peo¬ 
ple. Caesar Borgia, invited four of the little princes in his 
neighbourhood, who all possessed little sovereignties, and 
commanded little armies of their own, to a friendly confer¬ 
ence at Senigaglia, where, as soon as they arrived, he put 
them all to death. This infamous action, though certainly 
not approved of even in that age of crimes, seems to have 
contributed very little to the discredit, and not in the least 
to the ruin of the perpetrator. That ruin happened a few 
years after from causes altogether disconnected with this 
crime. Machiavel, not indeed a man of the nicest morality, 
even for his own times, was resident, as minister from the 
republic of Forence, at the court of Caesar Borgia when this 
crime was committed. He gives a very particular account of 
it, and in that pure, elegant, and simple language which dis¬ 
tinguishes all his writings. He talks of it very coolly j is 


296 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


pleased with the address with which Caesar Borgia conducted 
it; has much content for the dupery and weakness of the 
sufferers; but no compassion for their miserable and untimely 
death, and no sort of indignation at the cruelty and falsehood 
of their murderer. The violence and injustice of great con¬ 
querors are often regarded with foolish wonder and admira¬ 
tion; those of petty thieves, robbers, and murderers, with 
contempt, hatred, and even horror upon all occasions. The 
former, though they are a hundred times more mischievous 
and destructive, yet when successful, they often pass for deeds 
of the most heroic magnanimity. The latter are always view¬ 
ed with hatred and aversion, as the follies, as well as the 
crimes, of the lowest and most worthless of mankind. The 
injustice of the former is certainly, at least, as great as that 
of the latter; but the folly and imprudence are not near so 
great. A wicked and ^worthless man of parts often goes 
through the world with much more credit than he deserves. 
A wicked and worthless fool appear always of all mortals, 
the most hateful, as well as the most contemptible. As pru¬ 
dence, combined with other virtues, constitutes the noblest; 
so imprudence, combined with other vices, constitutes the 
vilest of all characters. 


Sect. II. 


OF VIRTUE. 


297 


SECTION II. 

OF THE CHARACTER OF THE INDIVIDUAL, SO FAR AS IT CAN 
AFFECT THE HAPPINESS OF OTHER PEOPLE. 

INTRODUCTION. 

The character of every individual, so far as it can affect 
the happiness of other people, must do so by its disposition 
either to hurt or to benefit them. 

Proper resentment for injustice attempted, or actually com¬ 
mitted, is the only motive which, in the eyes of the impartial 
spectator, can justify our hurting or disturbing in any respect 
the happiness of our neighbour. To do so from any other 
motive, is itself a violation of the laws of justice, which force 
ought to be employed either to restrain or to punish. The 
wisdom of every state or commonwealth endeavours, as well 
as it can, to employ the force of the society to restrain those 
who are subject to its authority, from hurting or disturbing 
the happiness of one another. The rules which it establishes 
for this purpose, constitute the civil and criminal law of each 
particular state or country. The principles upon which those 
rules either are, or ought to be founded, are the subject of a 
particular science, of all the sciences by far the most impor¬ 
tant, but hitherto, perhaps, the least cultivated, that of natu¬ 
ral jurisprudence; concerning which it belongs not to our 
present subject to enter into any detail. A sacred and reli¬ 
gious regard not to hurt or disturb in any respect the happi¬ 
ness of our neighbour, even in those cases where no law can 
properly protect him, constitutes the character of the perfect¬ 
ly innocent and just man; a character whicfi, when carried 
to a certain delicacy of attention, is always highly respectable 
and even venerable for its own sake, and can scarce ever fail 
to be accompanied with many other virtues, with great feeling 


298 


OP THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


for other people, with great humanity and great benevolence. 
It is a character sufficiently understood, and requires no fur¬ 
ther explanation. In the present section I shall only endeav¬ 
our to explain the foundation of that order which nature 
seems to have traced out for the distribution of our good of¬ 
fices, or for the direction and employment of our very limited 
powers of beneficence: first, towards individuals; and second¬ 
ly, towards societies. 

The same unerring wisdom, it will be found, which regu¬ 
lates every other part of her conduct, directs, in this respect 
too, the order of her recommendations; which are always 
stronger or weaker in proportion as our beneficence is more 
or less necessary, or can be more or less useful. 


CHAPTER I. 

Of the Order in which Individuals are recommended by 
Nature to our care and attention. 

EVERY man, as the Stoics used to say, is first and prin¬ 
cipally recommended to his own care; and every man is cer¬ 
tainly, in every respect, fitter and abler to take care of him¬ 
self than of any other person. Every man feels his own 
pleasures and his own pains more sensibly than those of other 
people. The former are the original sensations; the latter 
the reflected or sympathetic images of those sensations. The 
former may be said to be the substance; the latter the sha¬ 
dow. 

After himself, the members of his own family, those who 
usually live in the same house with him, his parents, his chil¬ 
dren, his brothers and sisters, are naturally the objects of his 
warmest affections. They are naturally and usually the per¬ 
sons upon whose happiness or misery his conduct must have 
the greatest influence. He is more habituated to sympa¬ 
thize with them. He knows better how everything is likely 


Sect. II. 


OF VIRTUE. 


299 


to affect them, and his sympathy with them is more precise 
and determinate, than it can be with the greater part of other 
people. It approaches nearer, in short, to what he feels for 
himself. 

This sympathy too, and the affections which are founded 
on it, are by nature more strongly directed towards his chil¬ 
dren than towards his parents, and his tenderness for the 
former seems generally a more active principle, than his re¬ 
verence and gratitude towards the latter. In the natural 
state of things, it has already been observed, the existence 
of the child, for some time after it comes into the world, de¬ 
pends altogether upon the care of the parent; that of the 
parent does not naturally depend upon the care of the childi 
In the eye of nature, it would seem, a child is a more im¬ 
portant object than an old man; and excites a much more 
lively, as well as a much more universal sympathy. It ought 
to do so. Every thing may be expected, or at least hoped, 
from the child. In ordinary cases, very little can be either 
expected or hoped from the old man. The weakness of 
childhood interests the affections of the most brutal and hard¬ 
hearted. It is only to the virtuous and humane, that the 
infirmities of old age are not the objects of contempt and a- 
version. In ordinary cases, an old man dies without being 
much regretted by any-body. Scarce a child can die without 
rending asunder the heart of somebody. 

The earliest friendships, the friendships which are natu¬ 
rally contracted when the heart is most susceptible of that 
feeling, are those among brothers and sisters. Their good 
agreement, while they remain in the same family, is neces¬ 
sary for its tranquillity and happiness. They are capable of 
giving more pleasure or pain to one another than to the great¬ 
er part of other people. Their situation renders their mu¬ 
tual sympathy of the utmost importance to their common 
happiness; and, by the wisdom of nature, the same situation, 
by obliging them to accommodate to one another, renders 
that sympathy more habitual, and thereby more lively, more 
distinct, and more determinate. 


2 p 2 


300 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI, 


The children of brothers and sisters are naturally connect¬ 
ed by the friendship which, after separating into different 
families, continues to take place between their parents. Their 
good agreement improves the enjoyment of that friendship; 
their discord would disturb it. As they seldom live in the 
same family, however, though of more importance to one 
another, than to the greater part of other people, they are 
of much less than brothers and sisters. As their mutual sym¬ 
pathy is less necessary, so it is less habitual, and therefore 
proportionably weaker. 

The children of cousins, being still less connected, are of 
still less importance to one another; and the affection grad¬ 
ually diminishes as the relation grows more and more re¬ 
mote. 

What is called affection, is in reality, nothing but habi¬ 
tual sympathy. Our concern in the happiness or misery of 
those who are the objects of what we call our affections; our 
desire to promote the one, and to prevent the other; are 
cither the actual feeling of that habitual sympathy, or the 
necessary consequences of that feeling. Relations being usu¬ 
ally placed in situations which naturally create this habitual 
sympathy, it is expected that a suitable degree of affection 
should take place among them. We generally find that it 
actually does take place; we therefore naturally expect that it 
should; and we are, upon that account, more shocked when, 
upon any occasion, we find that it does not. The general 
rule is established, that persons related to one another in a 
certain degree, ought always to be affected towards one ano¬ 
ther in a certain manner, and that there is always the high¬ 
est impropriety, and sometimes even a sort of impiety, in 
their being affected in a different manner. A parent with¬ 
out parental tenderness, a child devoid of all filial reverence, 
appear monsters, the objects, not of hatred only, but of hor¬ 
ror. 

Though in a particular instance, the circumstances which 
usually produce those natural affections, as they are called, 
may, by some accident, not have taken place, yet respect for 


Sect. II. 


01 ? virtue. 


301 


the general rule will frequently, in some measure, supply 
their place, and produce something which, though not alto¬ 
gether the same, may bear, however, a very considerable re¬ 
semblance to those affections. A father is apt to be less at¬ 
tached to a child^ who, by some accident, has been separated 
from him in its infancy, and who does not return to him till 
it is grown up to manhood. The father is apt to feel less 
paternal tenderness for the child; the child, less filial rever¬ 
ence for the father. Brothers and sisters, when they have 
been educated in distant countries, are apt to feel a similar 
diminution of affection. With the dutiful and the virtuous, 
however, respect for the general rule will frequently produce 
something which, though by no means the same, yet may 
very much resemble those natural affections. Even during 
the separation, the father and the child, the brothers or the 
sisters, are by no means indifferent to one another. They 
all consider one another as persons to and from whom cer¬ 
tain affections are due, and they live in the hopes of being 
some time or another in a situation to enjoy that friendship 
which ought naturally to have taken place among persons so 
nearly connected. Till they meet, the absent son, the ab¬ 
sent brother, are frequently the favourite son, the favourite 
brother. They have never offended, or, if they have, it is 
so long ago, that the offence is forgotten, as some childish 
trick not worth the remembering. Every account they have 
heard of one another, if conveyed by people of any tolerable 
good nature, has been, in the highest degree, flattering and 
favourable. The absent son, the absent brother, is not like 
other ordinary sons and brothers; but an all-perfect son, an 
all-perfect brother; and the most romantic hopes are enter¬ 
tained of the happiness to be enjoyed in the friendship and 
conversation of such persons. When they meet, it is often 
with so strong a disposition to conceive that habitual sympa¬ 
thy which constitutes the family affection, that they are very 
apt to fancy they have actually conceived it, and to behave to 
one another as if they had. Time and experience, however, I 
am afraid, too frequently undeceive them. Upon a more fa- 


302 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


miliar acquaintance, they frequently discover in one another 
habits, humours, and inclinations, different from what they 
expected, to which, from want of habitual sympathy, from 
want of the real principle and foundation of what is pro¬ 
perly called family-affection, they cannot now easily accom¬ 
modate themselves. They have never lived in the situa¬ 
tion which almost necessarily forces that easy accommodation, 
and though they may now be sincerely desirous to assume it, 
they have really become incapable of doing so. Their fami¬ 
liar conservation and intercourse soon become less pleasing to 
them, and, upon that account, less frequent. They may con¬ 
tinue to live with one another in the mutual exchange of all 
essential good offices, and with every other external appear¬ 
ance of decent regard. But that cordial satisfaction, that de¬ 
licious sympathy, that confidential openness and ease, which 
naturally take place in the conversation of those who have 
lived long and familiarly with one another, it seldom happens 
that they can completely enjoy. 

It is only, however, with the beautiful and the virtuous, 
that the general rule has even this slender authority. With 
the dissipated, the profligate, and the vain, it is entirely dis¬ 
regarded. They are so far from respecting it, that they sel¬ 
dom talk of it but with the most indecent derision; and an 
early and long separation of this kind never fails to estrange 
them most completely from one another. With such persons, 
respect for the general rule can at best produce only a cold 
and affected civility (a very slender semblance of real re¬ 
gard); and even this, the slightest offence, the smallest op¬ 
position of interest, commonly puts an end to altogether. 

The education of boys at distant great schools, of young 
men at distant colleges, of young ladies in distant nunneries 
and boarding-schools, seems, in the higher ranks of life, to 
have hurt most essentially the domestic morals, and conse¬ 
quently the domestic happiness, both of France and England. 
Do you wish to educate your children to be dutiful to their 
parents, to be kind and affectionate to their brothers and sis¬ 
ters? put them under the necessity of being dutiful children, 


Sect. II. 


OF VIRTUE. 


303 


of being kind and affectionate brothers and sisters; educate 
them in your own house. From their parent’s house they 
may, with propriety and advantage, go out every day to at¬ 
tend public schools: but let their dwelling be always at home. 
Respect for you must always impose a very useful restraint 
upon their conduct; and respect for them may frequently 
impose no useless restraint upon your own. Surely no ac¬ 
quirement, which can possibly be derived from what is called 
a public education, can make any sort of compensation for 
what is almost certainly and necessarily lost by it. Domestic 
education is the institution of nature; public education the 
contrivance of man. It is surely unnecessary to say, which 
is likely to be the wisest. 

In some tragedies and romances, we meet with many beau¬ 
tiful and interesting scenes, founded upon, what is called, the 
force of blood, or upon the wonderful affection which near 
relations are supposed to conceive for one another, even be¬ 
fore they know that they have any such connection. This 
force of blood, however, I am afraid, exists nowhere but in 
tragedies or romances. Even in tragedies and romances, it 
is never supposed to take place between any relations, but 
those who are naturally bred up in the same house; between 
parents and children, between brothers and sisters. To ima¬ 
gine any such mysterious affection between cousins, or even 
between aunts or uncles, and nephews or nieces, would be 
too ridiculous. 

In pastoral countries, and in all countries where the au¬ 
thority of law is not alone sufficient to give perfect security 
to every member of the state, all the different branches of 
the same family commonly clause to live in the neighbourhood 
of one another. Their association is frequently necessary for 
their common defence. They are all, from the highest to 
the lowest, of more or less importance to one another. Their 
concord strengthens their necessary association; their discord 
always weakens, and might destroy it. They have more in¬ 
tercourse with one another, than with the members of any 
other tribe. The remotest members of the same tribe claim 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


304 

some connection with one another; and, where ail other cir¬ 
cumstances are equal, expect to be treated with more distin¬ 
guished attention than is due to those who have no such pre¬ 
tentions. It is not many years ago that, in the Highlands 
of Scotland, the Chieftain used to consider the poorest man 
of his clan, as his cousin and relation. The same extensive 
regard to kindred is said to take place among the Tartars, 
the Arabs, the Turkomans, and, I believe, among all other 
nations who are nearly in the same state of society in which 
the Scots Higlanders were about the beginning of the present 
century. 

In commercial countries, where the authority of law is al¬ 
ways perfectly sufficient to protect the meanest man in the 
state, the descendants of the same family, having no such 
motive for keeping together, naturally separate and disperse, 
as interest or inclination may direct. They soon cease to be 
of importance to one another; and, in a few generations, not 
only lose all care about one another, but all remembrance of 
their common origin, and of the connection which took place 
among their ancestors. Regard for remote relations becomes, 
in every country, less and less, according as this state of ci¬ 
vilization has been longer and more completely established. 
It has been longer and more completely established in Eng¬ 
land than in Scotland; and remote relations are, accordingly, 
more considered in the latter country than in the former, 
though, in this respect, the difference between the two coun¬ 
tries is growing less and less every day. Great lords, indeed, 
are, in every country, proud of remembering and acknow¬ 
ledging their connection with one another, however remote. 
The remembrance of such illustrious relations flatters not a 
little the family pride of them all; and it is neither from af¬ 
fection, nor from any thing,which resembles affection, but 
from the most frivolous and childest of all vanities, that this 
remembrance is so carefully kept up. Should some more 
humble, though, perhaps, much nearer kinsman, presume to 
put such great men in mind of his relation to their family, 
they seldom fail to tell him that they are bad genealogists, 


Sect. II. 


OF VIRTUE. 


30.3 


and miserably ill-informed concerning their own family his¬ 
tory. It is not in that order, I am afraid, that we are to ex¬ 
pect any extraordinary extention of, what is called, natural 
affection. 

I consider what is called natural affection as more the 
effect of the moral than of the supposed physical connec¬ 
tion between the parent and the child. A jealous husband, 
indeed, notwithstanding the moral connection, notwithstand¬ 
ing the child’s having been educated in his own house, often 
regards, with hatred and aversion, that unhappy child which 
he supposes to be the offspring of his wife’s infidelity. It is 
the lasting monument of a most disagreeable adventure; of 
his own dishonour, and of the disgrace of his family. 

Among well-disposed people, the necessity or conveniency 
of mutual accommodation, very frequently produces a friend¬ 
ship not unlike that which takes place among those who are 
born to live in the same family. Colleagues in office, part¬ 
ners in trade, call one another brothers; and frequently feel 
towards one another as if they really were so. Their good 
agreement is an advantage to all; and, if they are tolerably 
reasonable people, they are naturally disposed to agree. We 
expect that they should do so; and their disagreement is a 
sort of a small scandal. The Romans expressed this sort of 
attachment by the word 7iecessitudo> which, from the etymo¬ 
logy, seems to denote that it was imposed by the necessity of 
the situation. 

Even the trifling circumstance of living in the same neigh¬ 
bourhood, has some effect of the same kind. We respect 
the face of a man whom we see every day, provided he has 
never offended us. Neighbours can be very convenient, 
and they can be very troublesome, to one another. If they 
are good sort of people, they are naturally disposed to agree. 
We expect their good agreement; and to be a bad neigh¬ 
bour is a very bad character. There are certain small good 
offices, accordingly, which are universally allowed to be due 
to a neighbour in preference to any other person who has 
no such connection. 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VL 


30G 


This natural disposition to accommodate and to assimi¬ 
late, as much as we can, our own sentiments, principles, and 
feelings, to those which we see fixed and rooted in the per¬ 
sons whom we are obliged to live and converse a great deal 
with, is the cause of the contagious effects of both good and 
bad company. The man who associates chiefly with the 
wise and the virtuous, though he may not himself become 
either wise or virtuous, cannot help conceiving a certain re¬ 
spect at least for wisdom and virtue; and the man who as¬ 
sociates chiefly with the profligate and the dissolute, though 
he may not himself become profligate and dissolute, must 
soon lose, at least, all his original abhorrence of profligacy 
and dissolution of manners. The similarity of family cha¬ 
racters, which we so frequently see transmitted through se¬ 
veral successive generations, may, perhaps, be partly owing 
to this disposition, to assimilate ourselves to those whom we 
are obliged to live and converse a great deal with. The fa¬ 
mily character, however, like the family countenance, seems 
to be owing, not altogether to the moral, but partly to the 
physical connection. The family countenance is certainly 
altogether owing to the latter. 

But of ail attachments to an individual, that which is 
founded altogether upon esteem and approbation of his good 
conduct and behaviour, confirmed by much experience and 
long acquaintance, is, by far, the most respectable. Such 
friendships, arising not from a constrained sympathy, not 
from a sympathy which has been assumed and rendered ha¬ 
bitual for the sake of convenience and accommodation; but 
from a natural sympathy, from an involuntary feeling that 
the persons to whom we attach ourselves are the natural and 
proper objects of esteem and approbation; can exist only a- 
mong men of virtue. Men of virtue can only feel that en¬ 
tire confidence in the conduct and behaviour of one another, 
which can, at all times, assure them that they can never ei¬ 
ther offend or be offended by one another. Vice is always 
capricious; virtue only is regular and orderly. The attach¬ 
ment which is founded upon the love of virtue, as it is cer- 


Sect. II. 


OP VIRTUE. 


307 


tainly, of all attachments, the most virtuous; so it is like¬ 
wise the happiest, as well as the most permanent and secure. 
Such friendships need not be confined to a single person, 
but may safely embrace all the wise and virtuous, with whom 
we have been long and intimately acquainted, and upon 
whose wisdom and virtue we can, upon that account, entire¬ 
ly depend. They who would confine friendship to two per¬ 
sons, seem to confound the wise security of friendship with 
tlie jealousy and folly of love. The hasty, fond, and fool¬ 
ish intimacies of young people, founded, commonly, upon 
slight similarity of character, altogether unconnected with 
good conduct, upon a taste, perhaps, for the same studies, 
the same amusements, the same diversions, or upon their 
agreement in some singular principle or opinion, not com¬ 
monly adopted; those intimacies which a freak begins, and 
which a freak puts an end to, how agreeable soever they 
may appear while they last, can by no means deserve the sa¬ 
cred and venerable name of friendship. 

Of all the persons, however, whom nature points out for 
our peculiar beneficence, there are none to whom it seems 
more properly directed than to those whose beneficence we 
have ourselves already experienced. Nature, which formed 
men for that mutual kindness, so necessary for their happi¬ 
ness, renders every man the peculiar object of kindness, to 
the persons to whom he himself has been kind. Though 
their gratitude should not always correspond to his benefir 
cence, yet the sense of his merit, the sympathetic gratitude 
of the impartial spectator, will always correspond to it. The 
general indignation of other people, against the baseness of 
their ingratitude, will even, sometimes, increase the general 
sense of his merit. No benevolent man ever lost altogether 
the fruits of his benevolence. If he does not always gather 
them from the persons from whom he ought to have gatherr 
ed them, he seldom fails to gather them, and with a tenfold 
increase, from other people. Kindness is the parent of kind¬ 
ness; and if to be beloved by our brethren be the great oh*. 


308 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


ject of our ambition, the surest way of obtaining it is, by 
our conduct to shew that we really love them. 

Aftbr the persons who are recommended to our beneficence, 
either by their connection with ourselves, by their personal 
qualities, or by their past services, come those who are pointed 
out, not indeed to, what is called, our friendship, but to our 
benevolent attention and good offices ; those who are distin¬ 
guished by their extraordinary situation; the greatly fortunate, 
and the greatly unfortunate, the rich and the powerful, the 
poor and the wretched. The distinction of ranks, the peace 
and order of society, are, in a great measure, founded upon 
the respect which we naturally conceive for the former. The 
relief and consolation of human misery depend altogether upon 
our compassion for the latter. The peace and order of society, 
is of more importance than even the relief of the miserable. 
Our respect for the great, accordingly, is most apt to offend 
by its excess; our fellow-feeling for the miserable, by its de¬ 
fect. Moralists exhort us to charity and compassion. They 
warn us against the fascination of greatness. This fascina¬ 
tion, indeed, is so powerful, that the rich and the great are 
too often preferred to the wise and the virtuous. Nature 
has wisely judged that the distinction of ranks, the peace 
and order of society, would rest more securely upon the 
plain and palpable difference of birth and fortune, than upon 
the invisible and often uncertain difference of wisdom and 
virtue. The undistinguishing eyes of the great mob of man¬ 
kind can well enough perceive the former: it is with difficul¬ 
ty that the nice discernment of the wise and the virtuous 
can sometimes distinguish the latter. In the order of all 
those recommendations, the benevolent wisdom of nature is 
equally evident. 

It may, perhaps, be unnecessary to observe, that the com¬ 
bination of two, or more, of those exciting causes of kind¬ 
ness, increases the kindness. The favour and partiality which, 
when there is no envy in the case, we naturally bear to great¬ 
ness, are much increased when it is joined with wisdom and 
virtue. If, notwithstanding that wisdom and virtue, the 


Sect. II. 


OF VIRTUE. 


309 


great man should fall into those misfortunes, those dangers 
and distresses, to which the most exalted stations are often 
the most exposed, we are much more deeply interested in 
his fortune than we should be in that of a person equally 
virtuous, but in a more humble situation. The most inter¬ 
esting subjects of tragedies and romances are the misfortunes 
of virtuous and magnanimous kings and princes. If, by the 
wisdom and manhood of their exertions, they should extri¬ 
cate themselves from those misfortunes, and recover com¬ 
pletely their former superiority and security, we cannot help 
viewing them with the most enthusiastic and even extrava¬ 
gant admiration. The grief which we felt for their distress, 
the joy which we feel for their prosperity, seem to combine 
together in enhancing that partial admiration which we na¬ 
turally conceive both for the station and the character. 

When those different beneficent affections happen to draw 
different ways, to determine by any precise rules in what 
cases we ought to comply with the one, and in what with 
the other, is, perhaps, altogether impossible. In what cases 
friendship ought to yield to gratitude, or gratitude to friend¬ 
ship; in what cases the strongest of all natural affections 
ought to yield to a regard for the safety of those superiors 
upon whose safety often depends that of the whole society; 
and in what cases natural affection may, without improprie¬ 
ty prevail over that regard; must be left altogether to the 
decision of the man within the breast, the supposed impar¬ 
tial spectator, the great judge and arbiter of our conduct. If 
we place ourselves completely in his situation, if we really 
view ourselves with his eyes, and as he views us, and listen 
with diligent and reverential attention to what he suggests 
to us, his voice will never deceive us. We shall stand in 
need of no casuistic rules to direct our conduct. These it is 
often impossible to accommodate to all the different shades 
and gradations of circumstance, character and situation, to 
differences and distinctions which, though not impercepti¬ 
ble, are, by their nicety and delicacy, often altogether unde- 
finable. In that beautiful tragedy of Voltaire, the Orphan 


310 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


of China, while we admire the magnanimity of Zanti, who 
is willing to sacrifice the life of his own child, in order to 
preserve that of the only feeble remnant of his ancient so¬ 
vereigns and masters; we not only pardon, but love the ma¬ 
ternal tenderness of Idame, who, at the risque of discovering 
the important secret of her husband, reclaims her infant from 
the cruel hands of the Tartars, into which it had been de«. 
livered. 


-»'j «— 


CHAPTER II. 

Of the Order in which Societies arc by Nature recom¬ 
mended to our Beneficence, 

THE same principles that direct the order in which indi¬ 
viduals are recommended to our beneficence, direct that like¬ 
wise in which societies are recommended to it. Those to 
which it is, or may be of most importance, are first and prin¬ 
cipally recommended to it. 

The state or sovereignty in which we have been born and 
educated, and under the protection of which we continue to 
live, is, in ordinary cases, the greatest society upon whose 
happiness or misery, our good or bad conduct can have much 
influence. It is accordingly, by nature, most strongly re¬ 
commended to us. Not only we ourselves, but all the ob¬ 
jects of our kindest affections, our children, our parents, our 
relations, our friends, our benefactors, all those whom we 
naturally love and revere the most, are commonly compre¬ 
hended within it*, and their prosperity and safety depend in 
some measure upon its prosperity and safety. It is by na¬ 
ture, therefore, endeared to us, not only by all our selfish, 
but by all our private benevolent affections. Upon account 
of our own connection with it, its prosperity and glory seem 
to reflect some sort of honour upon ourselves. When we 
compare it with other societies of the same kind, we ara 


Sect. II. 


OF VIRTUE. 


311 


proud of its superiority, and mortified in some degree, if it 
appears in any respect below them. All the illustrious cha¬ 
racters which it has produced in former times (for against 
those of our own times envy may sometimes prejudice us a 
little,) its warriors, its statesmen, its poets, its philosophers, 
and men of letters of all kinds; we are disposed to view with 
the most partial admiration, and to rank them (sometimes 
most unjustly) above those of all other nations. The patriot 
who lays down his life for the safety, or even for the vain¬ 
glory of this society, appears to act with the most exact pro¬ 
priety. He appears to view himself in the light in which 
the impartial spectator naturally and necessarily views him, 
as but one of the multitude, in the eye of that equitable judge, 
of no more consequence than any other in it, but bound at 
all times to sacrifice and devote himself to the safety, to the 
service, and even to the glory of the greater number. But 
though this sacrifice appears to be perfectly just and proper, 
we know how difficult it is to make it, and how few people 
are capable of making it. His conduct, therefore, excites 
not only our entire approbation, but our highest wonder and 
admiration, and seems to merit all the applause which, can 
be due to the most heroic virtue. The traitor, on the con¬ 
trary, who, in some peculiar situation, fancies he can pro¬ 
mote his own little interest by betraying to the public ene¬ 
my that of his native country; who, regardless of the judg¬ 
ment of the man within the breast, prefers himself, in this 
respect so shamefully and so basely, to all those with whom 
he has any connection; appears to be of all villains, the most 
detestable. 

The love of our own nation often disposes us to view, 
with the most malignant jealousy and envy, the prosperity 
and aggrandisement of any other neighbouring nation. In¬ 
dependent and neighbouring nations, having no common su¬ 
perior to decide their disputes, all live in continual dread 
and suspicion of one another. Each sovereign, expecting 
little justice from his neighbours, is disposed to treat them 
with as little as he expects from them. The regard for the 


312 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


laws of nations, or for those rules which independent states 
profess or pretend to think themselves bound to observe in 
their dealings with cftie another, is often very little more 
than mere pretence and profession. From the smallest in¬ 
terest, upon the slightest provocation, we see those rules 
every day, either evaded or directly violated without shame 
or remorse. Each nation foresees, or imagines it foresees, 
its own subjugation in the increasing power and aggrandise¬ 
ment of any of its neighbours; and the mean principle of na¬ 
tional prejudice is often founded upon the noble one of the 
love of our own country. The sentence with which the 
elder Cato is said to have concluded every speech which he 
made in the senate, whatever might be the subject, “ It is 
*< my opinion likewise that Carthage ought 1 to he destroyed” 
was the natural expression of the savage patriotism of a strong 
but coarse mind, enraged almost to madness against a foreign 
nation from which his own had suffered so much. The 
more humane sentence with which Scipio Nasica is said to 
have concluded all his speeches, <c It is my opinion likewise 
“ that Carthage ought not to be destroyed ” was the liberal 
expression of a more enlarged and enlightened mind, who 
felt no aversion to the prosperity even of an old enemy, when 
reduced to a state which could no longer be formidable to 
Rome. France and England, may each of them have some 
reason to dread the increase of the naval and military power 
of the other; but for either of them to envy the internal 
happiness and prosperity of the other, the cultivation of its 
lands, the advancement of its manufactures, the increase of 
its commerce, the security and number of its ports and har¬ 
bours, its proficiency in all the liberal arts and sciencies, is 
surely beneath the dignity of two such great nations. These 
are the real improvements of the world we live in. Man¬ 
kind are benefited, human nature is ennobled by them. In 
such improvements each nation ought, not only to endeavour 
itself to excel, but from the love of mankind, to promote, 
instead of obstructing the excellence of its neighbours. These 


Sect. II. 


OF VIRTUE. 


3i r> 


are all proper objects of national emulation, not of national 
prejudice or envy. 

The love of our own country seems not to be derived 
from the love of mankind. The former sentiment is altoge¬ 
ther independent of the latter, and seems sometimes even to 
dispose us to act inconsistently with it. France may con¬ 
tain, perhaps, near three times the number of inhabitants 
which Great Britain contains. In the great society of man¬ 
kind, therefore, the prosperity of France should appear to 
be an object of much greater importance than that to Great 
Britain. The British subject, however, who, upon that ac¬ 
count, should prefer upon all occasions the prosperity of the 
former to that of the latter country, would not be thought a 
good citizen of Great Britain. We do not love our country 
merely as a part of the great society of mankind: we love it 
for its own sake, and independently of any such considera¬ 
tion. That wisdom which contrived the system of human 
affections, as well as that of every other part of nature, seems 
to have judged that the interest of the great society of man¬ 
kind: would be best promoted by directing the principal at¬ 
tention of each individual to that particular portion of it, 
which was most within the sphere both of his abilities and 
of his understanding. 

National prejudices and hatreds seldom extend beyond 
neighbouring nations. We very weakly and foolishly, per¬ 
haps, call the French our natural enemies; and they per¬ 
haps, as weakly and foolishly, consider us in the same man¬ 
ner. Neither they nor we bear any sort of envy to the pros¬ 
perity of China or Japan. It very rarely happens, however, 
that our good-will towards such distant countries can be ex¬ 
erted with much effect. 

The most extensive public benevolence which can com¬ 
monly be exerted with any considerable effect, is that of the 
statesmen, who project and form alliances among neighbour¬ 
ing or not very distant nations, for the preservation either 
of, what is called, the balance of power, or of the general 


314 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


peace and tranquillity of the states within the circle of their 
negociations. The statesmen, however, who plan and exe¬ 
cute such treaties have seldom any thing in view, but the in¬ 
terest of their respective countries. Sometimes, indeed, 
their views are more extensive. The Count d Avaux, the 
plenipotentiary of France, at the treaty of Munster, would 
have been willing to sacrifice his life (according to the Car¬ 
dinal de Retz, a man not over-credulous in the virtue of o- 
ther people,) in order to have restored, by that treaty, the 
general tranquillity of Europe. King William, seems to have 
had a real zeal for the liberty and independency of the great¬ 
er part of the sovereign states of Europe; which, perhaps, 
might be a good deal stimulated by his particular aversion to 
France, the state from which, during his time, that liberty 
and independency were principally in danger. Some share 
of the same spirit seems to have descended to the first minis¬ 
try of Queen Anne. 

Every independent state is divided into many different 
orders and societies, each of which has its own particular 
powers, privileges and immunities. Every individual is na¬ 
turally more attached to his own particular order or society, 
than to any other. His own interest, his own vanity, the 
interest and vanity of many of his friends and companions, 
are commonly a good deal connected with it. He is ambi¬ 
tious to extend its privileges and immunities. He is zealous 
to defend them against the encroachments of every other or¬ 
der or society. 

Upon the manner in which any state is divided into the 
different orders and societies which compose it, and upon the 
particular distribution which has been made of their respec¬ 
tive powers, privileges, and immunities, depends, what is 
called, the constitution of that particular state. 

Upon the ability of each particular order or society to 
maintain its own powers, privileges, and immunities, against 
the encroachments of every other, depends the stability of 
that particular constitution. That particular constitution is 


Sect. II. 


OF VIRTUE. 


315 


necessarily more or less altered, whenever any of its subordin¬ 
ate parts is either raised above or depressed below whatever 
had been its former rank and condition. 

All those different orders and societies are dependent upon 
the state to which they owe their security and protection. 
That they are all subordinate to that state, and established 
only in subserviency to its prosperity and preservation, is a 
truth acknowledged by the most partial member of every one 
of them. It may often, however, be hard to convince him 
that the prosperity and preservation of the state require any 
diminution of the powers, privileges, and immunities of his 
own particular order or society. This partiality, though it 
may sometimes be unjust, may not, upon that account, be 
useless. It checks the spirit of innovation. It tends to pre¬ 
serve whatever is the established balance among the different 
orders or societies into which the state is divided; and while 
it sometimes appears to obstruct some alterations of govern* 
ment which may be fashionable and popular at the time, it 
contributes in reality to the stability and permanency of the 
whole system. 

The love of our country seems, in ordinary cases, to in¬ 
volve in it two different principles; first, a certain respect 
and reverence for that constitution or form of government 
which is actually established; and secondly, an earnest desire 
to render the condition of our fellow-citizens as safe, respec¬ 
table, and happy as we can. He is not a citizen who is not 
disposed to respect the laws and to obey the civil magistrate; 
and he is certainly not a good citizen who does not wish to 
promote, by every means in his power, the welfare of. the 
whole society of his fellow-citizens. 

In peaceable and quiet times, those two principles generally 
coincide and lead to the same conduct. The support of the 
established government seems evidently the best expedient 
for maintaining the safe, respectable, and happy situation of 
our fellow-citizens; when we see that this government actu¬ 
ally maintains them in that situation. But in times of public 
discontent, faction, and disorder, those two different princi- 

2 r 2 


316 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


pies may draw different ways, and even a wise man may 
be disposed to think some alteration necessary in that con¬ 
stitution or form of government which, in its actual condi¬ 
tion, appears plainly unabfe to maintain the public tranquill¬ 
ity. In such cases, however, it often requires, perhaps, the 
highest effort of political wisdom to determine when a real 
patriot ought to support and endeavour to re-establish the 
authority of the old system, and when he ought to give way 
to the more daring, but often dangerous spirit of innova¬ 
tion. 

Foreign war and civil faction are the two situations which 
afford the most splendid opportunities for the display of pub¬ 
lic spirit. The hero who serves his country successfully in 
foreign war* gratifies the wishes of the whole nation, and is, 
upon that account, the object of universal gratitude and ad¬ 
miration. In times of civil discord, the leaders of the con- 
tending-parties, though they may be admired by one half of 
their fellow-citizens, are commonly execrated by the other. 
Their characters and the merit of their respective services 
appear commonly more doubtful. The glory which is acquir¬ 
ed by foreign war is, upon this account, almost always more 
pure and more splendid than that which can be acquired in 
civil faction. 

The leader of the successful party, however, if he has au¬ 
thority enough to prevail upon his own friends to act with 
proper temper and moderation (which he frequently has not), 
may sometimes render to his country a service much more 
essential and important than the greatest victories and the 
most extensive conquests. He may re-establish and improve 
the constitution, and from the very doubtful and ambiguous 
character of the leader of a party, he may assume the greatest 
and noblest of all characters, that of the reformer and legis¬ 
lator of a great state; and, by the wisdom of his institutions, 
secure the internal tranquillity and happiness of his fellow- 
citizens for many succeeding generations. 

Amidst the turbulence and disorder of faction, a certain 
spirit of system is apt to mix itself with that public spirit 


Sect. 1L 


OF VIRTUE. 


317 

which is founded upon the love of humanity, upon a real fel¬ 
low-feeling with the inconveniences and distresses to which 
some of our fellow-citizens may be exposed. This spirit of 
system commonly takes the direction of that more gentle 
public spirit; always animates it, and often inflames it even 
to the madness of fanaticism. The leaders of the discontented 
party seldom fail to hold out some plausible plan of reforma¬ 
tion which they pretend, will not only remove the inconve¬ 
niences and relieve the distresses immediately complained of, 
but will prevent, in all time coming, any return of the like 
inconveniencies and distresses. They often propose, upon 
this account, to new-model the constitution, and to alter, in 
some of its most essential parts, that system of government 
under which the subjects of a great empire have enjoyed, 
perhaps, peace, security, and even glory, during the course 
of several centuries together. The great body of the party 
are commonly intoxicated with the imaginary beauty of this 
ideal system, of which they have no experience, but which 
has been represented to them in all the most dazzling colours 
in which the eloquence of their leaders could paint it. Those 
leaders themselves, though they originally may have meant 
nothing but their own aggrandizement, become many of 
them in time the dupes of their own sophistry, and are as 
eager for this great reformation as the weakest and foolishest 
of their followers. Even though the leaders should have 
preserved their own heads, as indeed they commonly do, 
free from this fanaticism, yet they dare not always disappoint 
the expectation of their followers; but are often obliged, 
though contrary to their principle and their conscience, to 
act as if they were under the common delusion. The violence 
of the party, refusing all palliatives, all temperaments, all rea¬ 
sonable accommodations, by requiring too much, frequently 
obtains nothing; and those inconveniences and distresses 
which, with a little moderation, might in a great measure 
have been removed and relieved, are left altogether without 
the hope of a remedy. 

The man whose public spirit is prompted altogether by 


318 


OP THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


humanity and benevolence, will respect the established powers 
and privileges even of individuals, and still more those of the 
great orders and societies, into which the state is divided. 
Though he should consider some of them as in some mea¬ 
sure abusive, he will, content h'mself w th moderating, what 
he often cannot annihilate without great violence. When 
he cannot conquer the rooted prejudices of the people by 
reason and persuasion, he will not attempt to subdue them 
by force; but will religiously observe what, by Cicero, is just¬ 
ly called the divine maxim of Plato, never to use violence 
to his country no more than to his parents. He will accom¬ 
modate, as well as he can, his public arrangements to the 
confirmed habits and prejudices of the people; and will reme¬ 
dy, as well as he can, the inconveniences which may flow from 
the want of those regulations which the people are averse to 
submit to. When he cannot establish the right, he will not 
disdain to ameliorate the wrong; but like Solon, when he 
cannot establish the best system of laws, he will endeavour 
to establish the best that the people can bear. 

The man of system, on the contrary, is apt to be very wise 
in his own conceit; and is often so enamoured with the sup¬ 
posed beauty of his own ideal plan of government, that he 
cannot suffer the smallest deviation from any part of it. He 
goes on to establish it completely and in all its parts, without 
any regard either to the great interests, or to the strong pre¬ 
judices which may oppose it. He seems to imagine that he 
can arrange the different members of a great society with as 
much ease as the hand arranges the different pieces upon a 
chess-board. He does not consider that the pieces upon the 
chess-board have no other principle of motion besides that 
which the hand impresses upon them; but that, in the great 
chess-board of human society, every single piece has a principle 
of motion of its own, altogether different from that which the 
legislature might choose to impress upon it. If those two 
principles coincide and act in the same direction, the game 
of human society will go on easily and harmoniously, and is 
very likely to be happy and successful. If they are opposite 


Sect. II. 


OF VIRTUE. 


319 


or different, the game will go on miserably, and the society 
must be at all times in the highest degree of disorder. 

Some general, and even systematical, idea of the perfection 
of policy and law, may no doubt be necessary for directing 
the views of the statesman. But to insist upon establishing, 
and upon establishing all at once, and in spite of all opposi¬ 
tion, every thing which that idea may seem to require, must 
often be the highest degree of arrogance. It is to erect his 
own judgment into the supreme standard of right and wrong. 
It is to fancy himself the only wise and worthy man in the 
common-wealth, and that his fellow-citizens should accom¬ 
modate themselves to him and not he to them. It is upon 
this account, that of all political speculators, sovereign princes 
are by far the most dangerous. This arrogance is perfectly 
familiar to them. They entertain no doubt of the immense 
superiority of their own judgment. When such imperial 
and royal reformers, therefore, condescend to contemplate the 
constitution of the country which is committed to their go¬ 
vernment, they seldom see any thing so wrong in it as the 
obstructions which it may sometimes oppose to the execution 
of their own will. They hold in contempt the divine maxim 
of Plato, and consider the state as made for themselves, not 
themselves for the state. The great object of their refor¬ 
mation, therefore, is to remove those obstructions; to reduce 
the authority of the nobility; to take away the privileges 
of cities and provinces, and to render both the greatest in¬ 
dividuals and the greatest orders of the state, as incapable 
of opposing their commands, as the weakest and most insig¬ 
nificant. 


320 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


CHAPTER III. 

Of Universal Benevolence . 

THOUGH our effectual good offices can very seldom be 
extended to any wider society than that of our own country; 
out good-will is circumscribed by no boundary, but may em¬ 
brace the immensity of the universe. We cannot form the 
idea of any innocent and sensible being, whose happiness we 
should not desire, or to whose misery, when distinctly brought 
home to the imagination, we should not have some degree 
of aversion. The idea of a mischievous, though sensible be¬ 
ing, indeed, naturally provokes our hatred: but the ill-will 
which, in this case, we bear to it, is really the effect of our 
universal benevolence. It is the effect of the sympathv which 
we feel with the misery and resentment of those other in¬ 
nocent and sensible beings, whose happiness is disturbed by 
its malice. 

This universal benevolence, how noble and generous so¬ 
ever, can be the scource of no solid happiness to any man 
who is not thoroughly convinced that all the inhabitants of 
the universe, the meanest as well as the greatest, are under 
the immediate care and protection of that great, benevolent, 
and all-wise Being, who directs all the movements of nature; 
and who is determined, by his own unalterable perfections, 
to maintain in it, at all times, the greatest possible quantity 
of happiness. To this universal benevolence, on the con¬ 
trary, the very suspicion of a fatherless world, must be the 
most melancholy of all reflections; from the thought that 
all the unknown regions of infinite and incomprehensible 
space may be filled with nothing but endless misery and 
wretchedness. All the splendour of the highest prosperity can 
never enlighten the gloom with which so dreadful an idea 
must necessarily overshadow the imagination; nor, in a wise 
and virtuous man, can all the sorrow of the most afflicting 


Sect. II. 


OP VIRTUE. 


321 


adversity ever dry up the joy which necessarily springs from 
the habitual and thorough conviction of the truth of the con¬ 
trary system. 

The wise and virtuous man is at all times willing that his 
own private interest should be sacrificed to the public inter¬ 
est of his own particular order or society. He is at all times 
willing, too, that the interest of this order of society should 
be sacrificed to the greater interest of the state or sovereignty, 
of which it is only a subordinate part. He should, therefore, 
be equally willing that all those inferior interests should be 
sacrificed to the greater interest of the universe, to the in¬ 
terest of that great society of all sensible and intelligent 
beings, of which God himself is the immediate administra¬ 
tor and director. If he is deeply impressed with the ha¬ 
bitual and thorough conviction that this benevolent and all¬ 
wise Being can admit into the system of his government, no 
partial evil which is not necessary for the universal good, he 
must consider all the misfortunes which may befal himself, 
his friends, his society, or his country, as necessary for the 
prosperity of the universe, and therefore as what he ought, 
not only to submit to with resignation, but as what he him¬ 
self, if he had known all the connexions and dependencies 
of things, ought sincerely and devoutly to have wished for. 

Nor does this magnanimous resignation to the will of the 
great Director of the universe, seem in any respect beyond 
the reach of human nature. Good soldiers, who both love 
and trust their general, frequently march with more gaiety and 
alacrity to the forlorn station, from which they never expect 
to return, than they would to one where there was neither 
difficulty nor danger. In marching to the latter, they could 
feel no other sentiment than that of the dulness of ordinary 
duty: in marching to the former, they feel that they are mak- k 
ing the noblest exertion which is possible for man to make. 
They know that their general would not have ordered them 
upon this station, had it not been necessary for the safety of 
the army, for the success of the war. They cheerfully sacri¬ 
fice their own little systems to the prosperity of a greater sys- 


322 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI, 


tem. They take an affectionate leave of their comrades, to 
whom they wish all happiness and success; and march out, 
not only with submissive obedience, but often with shouts of 
the most joyful exultation, to that fatal, but splendid and 
honourable station to which they are appointed. No con¬ 
ductor of an army can deserve more unlimited trust, more 
ardent and zealous affection, than the great Conductor of the 
universe. In the greatest public as well as private disasters, 
a wise man ought to consider that he himself, his friends and 
countrymen, have only been ordered upon the forlorn station 
of the universe; that had it not been necessary for the good 
of the whole, they would not have been so ordered; and that 
it is their duty, not only with humble resignation to submit 
to this allotment, but to endeavour to embrace it with alacrity 
and joy. A wise man should surely be capable of doing what 
a good soldier holds himself at all times in readiness to do. 

The idea of that divine Being, whose benevolence and 
wisdom have, from all eternity, contrived and conducted the 
immense machine of the universe, so as at all times to pro¬ 
duce the greatest possible quantity of happiness, is certainly 
of all the objects of human contemplation by far the most 
sublime. Every other thought necessarily appears mean in 
the comparison. The man whom we believe to be princi¬ 
pally occupied in this sublime contemplation, seldom fails to 
be the object of our highest veneration; and though his life 
should be altogether contemplative, we often regard him with 
a sort of religious aspect much superior to that with which 
we look upon the most active and useful servant of the com¬ 
monwealth. The Meditations of Marcus Antoninus, which 
turn principally upon this subject, have contributed more, 
perhaps, to the general admiration of his character, than all 
the different transactions of his just, merciful, and beneficent 
reign. 

^ The administration of the great system of the universe, 
however, the care of the universal happiness of all rational 
and sensible beings, is the business of God and not of man. 
To man is allotted a much humbler department, but one 


Sect. II. 


OF VIRTUE. 


323 


much more suitable to the weakness of his powers, and to the 
narrowness of his comprehension; the care of his own happi¬ 
ness, of that of his family, his friends, his country: that he is 
occupied in contemplating the more sublime, can never be an 
excuse for his neglecting the more humble department j and 
he must not expose himself to the charge which Avidius Cas¬ 
sius is said to have brought, perhaps unjustly, against Marcus 
Antoninus j that while he employed himself in philosophical 
speculations, and contemplated the prosperity of the universe, 
he neglected that of the Roman empire. The most sublime 
speculation of the contemplative philosopher can scarce com-r 
pensate the neglect of the smallest active duty. 


2 s 2 


-9 


324. 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part. VI. 


SECTION III. 

OF SELF-COMMAND. 

The man who acts according to the rules of perfect pru¬ 
dence, of strict justice, and of proper benevolence, may be 
said to be perfectly virtuous. . But the most perfect know¬ 
ledge of those rules will alone enable him to act in this man¬ 
ner : his own passions are very apt to mislead him; sometimes 
to drive him, and sometimes to seduce him to violate all the 
rules which he himself, in all his sober and cool hours, ap¬ 
proves of. The most perfect knowledge, if it is not support¬ 
ed by the most perfect self-command, will not always enable 
him to do his duty. 

Some of the best of the ancient moralists seem to have 
considered those passions as divided into two different classes: 
first, into those which it requires a considerable exertion of 
self-command to restrain even for a single moment; and se¬ 
condly, into those which it is easy to restrain for a single mo¬ 
ment, or even for a short period of time; but which, by their 
continual and almost incessant solicitations, are, in the course 
of a life, very apt to mislead into great deviations. 

Fear and anger, together with some other passions which 
are mixed or connected with them, constitute the first class. 
The love of ease, of pleasure, of applause, and of many other 
selfish gratifications, constitute the second. Extravagant fear 
and furious anger, it is often difficult to restrain even for a 
single moment. The love of ease, of pleasure, of applause, 
and other selfish gratifications, it is always easy to restrain 
for a single moment,or even for a short period of time; but, 
by their continual solicitations, they often mislead us into 
many weaknesses which we have afterwards much reason to 
be ashamed of. The former set of passions may often be 


Sect. III. 


Or VIRTUE. 


325 


said to drive, the latter, to seduce us from our duty. The 
command of the former was, by the ancient moralists above 
alluded to, denominated fortitude, manhood, and strength of 
mind; that of the latter, temperance, decency, modesty, and 
moderation. 

The command of each of these two sets of passions, inde¬ 
pendent of the beauty which it derives from its utility; from 
its enabling us upon all occasions to act according to the dic¬ 
tates of prudence, of justice, and of proper benevolence; has 
a beauty of its own, and seems to deserve for its own sake a 
certain degree of esteem and admiration. In the one case, 
the strength and greatness of the exertion excites some de¬ 
gree of that esteem and admiration. In the other, the uni¬ 
formity, the equality and unremitting steadiness of that exer¬ 
tion. 

The man who, in danger, in torture, upon the approach 
of death, preserves his tranquillity unaltered, and suffers no 
word, no gesture to escape him which does not perfectly ac¬ 
cord with the feelings of the most indifferent spectator, ne¬ 
cessarily commands a very high degree of admiration. If 
he suffers in the cause of liberty and justice, for the sake of 
humanity and the love of his country, the most tender com¬ 
passion for his sufferings, the strongest indignation against 
the injustice of his persecutors, the warmest sympathetic gra¬ 
titude for his beneficent intentions, the highest sense of his 
merit, all join and mix themselves with the admiration of his 
magnanimity, and often inflame that sentiment into the most 
enthusiastic and rapturous veneration. The heroes of ancient 
and modern history, who are remembered with the most pe¬ 
culiar favour and affection, are, many of them, those who, in 
the cause of truth, liberty, and justice, have perished upon 
the scaffold, and who appeared there with that ease and dig¬ 
nity which became them. Had the enemies of Socrates suf¬ 
fered him to die quietly in his bed, the glory even of that 
great philosopher might possibly never have acquired that 
dazzling splendour in which it has been beheld in all succeed¬ 
ing ages. In the English history, when we look over the 


326 


OF TIIE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


illustrious heads which have been engraven by Vertue and 
Howbraken, there is scarce any body, I imagine, who does 
not feel that the axe, the emblem of having been beheaded, 
which is engraved under some of the most illustrious of them; 
under those of the Sir Thomas Mores, of the Raleighs, the 
Russels, the Sydneys, &c. sheds a real dignity and interest- 
ingness over the characters to which it is affixed, much supe¬ 
rior to what they can derive from all the futile ornaments of 
heraldry, with which they are sometimes accompanied. 

Nor does this magnanimity give lustre only to the charac¬ 
ters of innocent and virtuous men. It draws some degree 
of favourable regard even upon those of the greatest crim¬ 
inals; and when a robber or highwayman is brought to the 
scaffold, and behaves there with decency and firmness, though 
we perfectly approve of his punishment, we often cannot help 
regretting that a man who possessed such great and noble 
powers should have been capable of such mean enormities. 

War is the great school both for acquiring and exercising 
this species of magnanimity. Death, as we say, is the king 
of terrors; and the man who has conquered the fear of death, 
is not likely to lose his presence of mind at the approach of 
any other natural evil. In war, men become familiar with 
death, and are thereby necessarily cured of that superstitious 
horror with which it is viewed by the weak and unexperienced. 
They consider it merely as the loss of life, and as no further 
the object of aversion than as life may happen to be that of 
desire. They learn from experience, too, that many seem- 
ingly great dangers are not so great as they appear; and that, 
with courage, activity, and presence of mind, there is often 
a good probability of extricating themselves with honour 
from situations where at first they could see no hope. The 
dread of death is thus greatly diminished; and the confidence 
or hope of escaping it, augmented. They learn to expose 
themselves to danger with less reluctance. They are less 
anxious to get out of it, and less apt to lose their presence 
of mind while they are in it. It is this habitual contempt of 
danger and death which ennobles the professsion of a soldier. 


Sect. III. 


OP VIRTUE. 


327 


and bestows upon it, in the natural apprehensions of man¬ 
kind, a rank and dignity superior to that of any other pro¬ 
fession. The skilful and successful exercise of this profession, 
in the service of their country, seems to have constituted the 
most distinguishing feature in the character of the favourite 
heroes of all ages. 

Great warlike exploits, though undertaken contrary to 
every principle of justice, and carried on without any regard 
to humanity, sometimes interests us, and commands even 
some degree of a certain sort of esteem for the very worth¬ 
less characters which conduct it. We are interested even in 
the exploits of the Buccaneers; and read with some sort of 
esteem and admiration, the history of the most worthless men, 
who, in pursuit of the most criminal purposes, endured great¬ 
er hardships, surmounted greater difficulties, and encountered 
greater dangers, than, perhaps, any which the ordinary course 
of history gives an account of. 

The command of anger appears upon many occasions not 
less generous and noble than that of fear. The proper ex¬ 
pression of just indignation composes many of the most splen¬ 
did and admired passages both of ancient and modern elo¬ 
quence. The Philippics of Demosthenes, tile Catalinarians 
of Cicero, derive their whole beauty from the noble propriety 
with which this passion is expressed. But this just indigna¬ 
tion is nothing but anger restrained and properly attempered 
to what the impartial spectator can enter into. The bluster¬ 
ing and noisy passion which goes beyond this, is always odi¬ 
ous and offensive, and interests us, not for the angry man, 
but for the man with whom he is angry. The nobleness of 
pardoning appears, upon many occasions, superior even to 
the most perfect propriety of resenting. When either pro¬ 
per acknowledgments have been made by the offending party; 
or, even without any such acknowledgments, when the pub¬ 
lic interests requires that the most mortal ememies should 
unite for the discharge of some important duty, the man who 
can cast away all animosity, and act with confidence and cor- 


328 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


diality towards the person who had most grievously offended 
him, seems justly to merit our highest admiration. 

The command of anger, however, does not always appear 
in such splendid colours. Fear is contrary to anger, and is 
often the motive which restrains it; and in such cases the 
meanness of the motive takes away all the nobleness of the 
restraint. Anger prompts to attack, and the indulgence of 
it seems sometimes to show a sort of courage and superiority 
to fear. The indulgence of anger is sometimes an object of 
vanity. That of fear never is. Vain and weak men, among 
their inferiors, or those who dare not resist them, often affect 
to be ostentatiously passionate, and fancy that they show, 
what is called, spirit in being so. A bully tells many stories 
of his own insolence, which are not true, and imagines that 
he thereby renders himself, if not more amiable and respecta¬ 
ble, at least more formidable to his audience. Modern man¬ 
ners, which, by favouring the practice of duelling, may be 
said, in some cases, to encourage private revenge, contri¬ 
bute, perhaps, a good deal to render, in modern times, the 
restraint of anger by fear still more contemptible than it 
might otherwise appear to be. There is always something 
dignified in the command of fear, whatever may be the mo¬ 
tive upon which it is founded. It is not so with the com¬ 
mand of anger. Unless it is founded altogether in the sense 
of decency, of dignity, and propriety, it never is perfectly 
agreeable. 

To act according to the dictates of prudence, of justice, 
and proper beneficence, seems to have no great merit where 
there is no temptation to do otherwise. But to act with cool 
deliberation in the midst of the greatest dangers and difficul¬ 
ties; to observe religiously the sacred rules of justice in spite 
both of the greatest interests which might tempt, and the 
greatest injuries which might provoke us to violate them; 
never to suffer the benevolence of our temper to be damped 
or discouraged by the malignity and ingratitude of the indi¬ 
viduals towards whom it may have been exercised; is the 
character of the most exalted wisdom and virtue. Self-corn- 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE. 


329 


mand is not only itself a great virtue, but from it all the 
other virtues seem to derive their principle lustre. 

The command of fear, the command of anger, are always 
great and noble powers. When they are directed by justice 
and benevolence, they are not only great virtues, but increase 
the splendour of those other virtues. They may, however, 
sometimes be directed by very different motives; and in this 
case, though still great and respectable, they may be exces¬ 
sively dangerous. The most intrepid valour may be employ¬ 
ed in the cause -of the greatest injustice. Amidst great pro¬ 
vocations, apparent tranquillity and good humour may some¬ 
times conceal the most determined and cruel resolution to 
revenge. The strength of mind requisite for such dissimu¬ 
lation, though always and necessarily contaminated by the 
baseness of falsehood, has, however, been often much admir¬ 
ed by many people of no contemptible judgment. The dis¬ 
simulation of Catharine of Medicis is often celebrated by the 
profound historian Davila; that of Lord Digby, afterwards 
Earl of Bristol, by the grave and conscientious Lord Claren¬ 
don ; that of the first Ashley Earl of Shaftesbury, by the 
judicious Mr Locke. Even Cicero seems to consider this 
deceitful character, not indeed as of the highest dignity, but 
as not unsuitable to a certain flexibility of manners, which, 
he thinks, may, notwithstanding, be, upon the whole, both 
agreeable and respectable, tie exemplifies it by the char¬ 
acters of Homers Ulysses, of the Athenian Themistocles, of 
the Spartan Lysander, and of the Roman Marcus Crassus. 
This character of dark and deep dissimulation occurs most 
commonly in times of great public disorder; amidst the vio¬ 
lence of faction and civil war. When law has become in a 
great measure impotent, when the most perfect innocence 
cannot alone insure safety, regard to self-defence obliges the 
greater part of men to have recourse to dexterity, to address, 
and to apparent accommodation to whatever happens to be, 
at the moment, the prevailing party. This false character, 
too, is frequently accompanied with the coolest and most de¬ 
termined courage. The proper exercise of it imposes that 

2 T 


330 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


courage, as death is commonly the certain consequence of 
detection. It may be employed indifferently, either to ex¬ 
asperate or to allay those furious animosities of adverse fac¬ 
tions which impose the necessity of assuming it; and though 
it may sometimes be useful, it is at least equally liable to be 
excessively pernicious. 

The command of the less violent and turbulent passions 
seems much less liable to be abused to any pernicious pur¬ 
pose. Temperance, decency, modesty, and moderation, are 
always amiable, and can seldom be directed to any bad end. 
It is from the unremitting steadiness of those gentler exer¬ 
tions of self command, that the amiable virtue of chastity, 
that the respectable virtues of industry and frugality, derive 
all that sober lustre which attends them. The conduct of all 
those who are contented to walk in the humble paths of pri¬ 
vate and peaceable life, derives from the same principle the 
greater part of the beauty and grace which belong to it; a 
beauty and grace which, though much less dazzling, is not 
always less pleasing than those which accompany the more 
splendid actions of the hero, the statesman, or the legis¬ 
lator. 

After what has already been said, in several different 
parts of this discourse, concerning the nature of self-com¬ 
mand, I judge it unnecessary to enter into any further de¬ 
tail concerning those virtues. I shall only observe at pre¬ 
sent, that the point of propriety, the degree of any passion 
which the impartial spectator approves of, is differently si¬ 
tuated in different passions. In some passions the excess is 
less disagreeable than the defect; and in such passions the 
point of propriety seems to stand high, or nearer to the ex¬ 
cess than to the defect. In other passions, the defect is less 
disagreeable than the excess; and in such passions the point 
of propriety seems to stand low, or nearer to the defect than 
to the excess. The former are the passions which the spec¬ 
tator is most, the latter, those which he is least disposed to 
sympathize with. The former, too, are the passions of which 
the immediate feeling or sensation is agreeable to the person 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE. 


331 


principally concerned ; the latter, those of which it is disa¬ 
greeable. It may be laid down as a general rule, that the 
passions which the spectator is most disposed to sympathize 
with, and in which, upon that account, the point of proprie¬ 
ty may be said to stand high, are those of which the imme¬ 
diate feeling or sensation is more or less agreeable to the 
person principally concerned: and that, on the contrary, the 
passions which the spectator is least disposed to sympathize 
with, and in which, upon that account, the point of proprie¬ 
ty may be said to stand low, are those of which the immedi¬ 
ate feeling or sensation is more or less disagreeable, or even 
painful, to the person principally concerned. This general 
rule, so far as I have been able to observe, admits not of a 
single exception. A few examples will at once both suffi¬ 
ciently explain it and demonstrate the truth of it. 

The disposition to the affections which tend to unite men 
In society, to humanity, kindness, natural affection, friend¬ 
ship, esteem, may sometimes be excessive. Even the excess 
of this disposition, however, renders a man interesting to 
every body. Though we blame it, we still regard it with 
compassion, and even with kindness, and never with dislike. 
We are more sorry for it than angry at it. To the person 
himself, the indulgence even of such excessive affections is, 
upon many occasions, not only agreeable but delicious. 
Upon some occasions, indeed, especially when directed,^ as is 
too often the case, towards unworthy objects, it exposes him 
to much real and heartfelt distress. Even upon such occa* 
sions, however, a well-disposed mind regards him with the 
most exquisite pity, and feels the highest indignation against 
those who affect to despise him for his weakness and impru¬ 
dence. The defect of this disposition, on the contrary, what 
is called hardness of heart, while it renders a man insensi¬ 
ble to the feelings and distresses of other people, renders o- 
ther people equally insensible to his; and, by excluding him 
from the friendship of all the world, excludes him from the 
best and most comfortable of all social enjoyments. 

The disposition to the affections which drive men from 

2 t 2 


332 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


one another, and which tend, as it were, to break the bands 
of human society; the disposition to anger, hatred, envy, 
malice, revenge ; is, on the contrary, much more apt to of¬ 
fend by its excess than by its defect. The excess renders a 
man wretched and miserable in his own mind, and the ob¬ 
ject of hatred, and sometimes even of horror, to other peo¬ 
ple. The defect is very seldom complained of. It may, 
however, be defective. The want of proper indignation is a 
most essential defect in the manly character, and, upon ma¬ 
ny occasions, renders a man incapable of protecting either 
himself or his friends from insult and injustice. Even that 
principle, in the excess and improper direction of which con¬ 
sists the odious and detestable passion of envy, may be de¬ 
fective. Envy is that passion which views with malignant 
dislike the superiority of those who are really entitled to all 
the superiority they possess. The man, however, who, in 
matters of consequence, tamely suffers other people, who 
are entitled to no such superiority, to rise above him or get 
before him, is justly condemned as mean-spirited. This 
weakness is commonly founded in indolence, sometimes in 
good nature, in an aversion to opposition, to bustle and so¬ 
licitation, and sometimes, too, in a sort of ill-judged magna¬ 
nimity, which fancies that it can always continue to despise 
the advantage which it then despises, and, therefore, so ea¬ 
sily gives up. Such weakness, however, is commonly follow¬ 
ed by much regret and repentance*, and what had some ap¬ 
pearance of magnanimity in the beginning, frequently gives 
place to a most malignant envy in the end, and to a hatred 
of that superiority, which those who have once attained 
it, may often become really entitled to, by the very circum¬ 
stance of having attained it. In order to live comfortably 
in the world, it is, upon all occasions, as necessary to defend 
our dignity and rank, as it is to defend our life or our for¬ 
tune. 

Our sensibility to personal danger and distress, like that 
to personal provocation, is much more apt to offend by its 
excess than by its defect. No character is more contempti- 


Sect. III. 


Ol' VIRTUE. 


335 


ble than that of a coward ; no character is more admired than 
that of the man who faces death with intrepidity, and main¬ 
tains his tranquillity and presence of mind amidst the most 
dreadful dangers. We esteem the man who supports pain 
and even torture with manhood and firmness*, and we can 
have little regard for him who sinks under them, and aban¬ 
dons himself to useless outcries and womanish lamentations. 
A fretful temper, which feels, with too much sensibility, 
every little cross accident, renders a man miserable in him¬ 
self and offensive to other people. A calm one, which does 
not allow its tranquillity to be disturbed, either by the small 
injuries, or by the little disasters incident to the usual course 
of human affairs; but which, amidst the natural and moral 
evils infesting the world, lays its account, and is contented 
to suffer a little from both, is a blessing to the man himself, 
and gives ease and security to all his companions. 

Our sensibility, however, both to our own injuries and to 
our own misfortunes, though generally too strong, may like¬ 
wise be too weak. The man who feels little for his own 
misfortunes must always feel less for those of other peo¬ 
ple, and be less disposed to relieve them. The man who has 
little resentment for the injuries which are done to himself, 
must always have less for those which are done to other peo¬ 
ple, and be less disposed either to protect or to avenge them. 
A stupid insensibility to the events of human life necessarily 
extinguishes all that keen and earnest attention to the pro¬ 
priety of our own conduct, which constitutes the real essense 
of virtue. We can feel little anxiety about the propriety of 
our own actions, when we are indifferent about the events 
which may result from them. The man who feels the full 
distress of the calamity which has befallen him, who feels the 
whole baseness of the injustice which has been done to him, 
but who feels still more strongly what the dignity of his own 
character requires; who does not abandon himself to the 
guidance of the undisciplined passions which his situation 
might naturally inspire; but who governs his whole beha¬ 
viour and conduct according to those restrained and correct- 


334 


O? THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


ed emotions which the great inmate, the great demi-god 
within the breast prescribes and approves of; is alone the 
real man of virtue, the only real and proper object of love, 
respect, and admiration. Insensibility and that noble firm¬ 
ness, that exalted self-command, which is founded in the 
sense of dignity and propriety, are so far from being altoge¬ 
ther the same, that in proportion as the former takes place* 
the merit of the latter is, in many cases, entirely taken a- 
way. 

But though the total want of sensibility to personal in¬ 
jury, to personal danger and distress, would, in such situa¬ 
tions, take away the whole merit of self-command, that sen¬ 
sibility, however, may very easily be too exquisite, and it 
frequently is so. When the sense of propriety, when the 
authority of the judge within the breast, can control this ex¬ 
treme sensibility, that authority must no doubt appear very 
noble and very great. But the exertion of it may be too fa¬ 
tiguing; it may have too much to do. The individual, by a 
great effort, may behave perfectly well. But the contest be¬ 
tween the two principles, the warfare within the breast, may 
be too violent to be at all consistent with internal tranquillity 
and happiness. The wise man whom nature has endowed 
with this too exquisite sensibility, and whose too lively feel¬ 
ings have not been sufficiently blunted and hardened by ear¬ 
ly education and proper exercise, will avoid, as much'as du¬ 
ty and propriety will permit, the situations for which he is 
not perfectly fitted. The man whose feeble and delicate 
constitution renders him too sensible to pain, to hardship, 
and to every sort of bodily distress, should not wantonly em¬ 
brace the profession of a soldier. The man of too much 
sensibility to injury, should not rashly engage in the con¬ 
tests of faction. 1 hough the sense of propriety should be 
strong enough to command all those sensibilities, the compo¬ 
sure of the mind must always be disturbed in the struggle. 

In this disorder the judgment cannot always maintain its or¬ 
dinary acuteness and precision; and though he may always 
mean to act properly, he may often act rashly and impru- 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE* 


335 


dently, and in a manner which he himself will, in the suc¬ 
ceeding part of his life, be for ever ashamed of. A certain 
intrepidity, a certain firmness of nerves and hardiness of con¬ 
stitution, whether natural or acquired, are undoubtedly the 
best preparatives for all the great exertions of self-command. 

Though war and faction are certainly the best schools 
for forming every man to this hardiness and firmness of tem¬ 
per, though they are the best remedies for curing him of the 
opposite weaknesses, yet, if the day of trial should happen 
to come before he has completely learned his lesson, before 
the remedy has had time to produce its proper effect, the 
consequences might not be agreeable. 

Our sensibility to the pleasures, to the amusements, and 
enjoyments of human life, may offend, in the same manner, 
either by its excess or by its defect of the two, however, the 
excess seems less disagreeable than the defect. Both to the 
spectator, and to the person principally concerned, a strong 
propensity to joy is certainly more pleasing than a dull insensi¬ 
bility to the objects of amusement and diversion. We are 
charmed with the gaiety of youth, and even with the playful¬ 
ness of childhood: but we soon grow weary of the flat and taste¬ 
less gravity which too frequently accompanies old age. When 
this propensity, indeed, is not restrained by the sense of pro¬ 
priety, when it is unsuitable to the time or to the place, to 
the age or to the situation of the person, when to indulge it, 
he neglects either his interest or his duty; it is justly blamed 
as excessive, and as hurtful both to the individual and to the 
society. In the greater part of such cases, however, what is 
chiefly to be found fault with is, not so much the strength of 
the propensity to joy, as the weakness of the sense of pro¬ 
priety and duty. A young man who has no relish for the 
diversions and amusements that are natural and suitable to 
his age, who talks of nothing but his book or his business, is 
disliked as formal and pedantic; and we give him no credit 
for his abstinence even from improper indulgencies, to which 
he seems to have so little inclination. 

The principle of self-estimation may be too high, and it 


33(5 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


may likewise be too low. It is so very agreeable to think 
highly, and so very disagreeable to think meanly of ourselves, 
that, to the person himself, it cannot well be doubted, but 
that some degree of excess must be much less disagreeable 
than any degree of defect. But to the impartial spectator, 
it may perhaps be thought, things must appear quite dif¬ 
ferently, and that to him the defect must always be less dis¬ 
agreeable than the excess. And in our companions, no 
doubt, we much more frequetly complain of the latter than 
of the former. When they assume upon us, or set them¬ 
selves before us, their self-estimation mortifies our own. 
Our own pride and vanity prompt us to accuse them of pride 
and vanity, and we cease to be the impartial spectators of 
their conduct. When the same companions, however, suf¬ 
fer any other man to assume over them a superiority which 
does not belong to him, we not only blame them, but often 
despise them as mean-spirited. When, on the contrary, a- 
mong other people, they push themselves a little more for¬ 
ward, and scramble to an elevation disproportioned, as we 
think, to their merit, though we may not perfectly approve 
of their conduct, we are often, upon the whole, diverted 
with it; and, w r here there is no envy in the case, we are al¬ 
most always much less displeased with them, than we should 
have been, had they suffered themselves to sink below their 
proper station. 

In estimating our own merit, in judging of our own cha¬ 
racter and conduct, there are two different standards to which 
we naturally compare them. The one is the idea of exact 
propriety and perfection, so far as we are each of us capable 
of comprehending that idea. The other is that degree of 
approximation to this idea which is commonly attained in 
the world, and which the greater part of our friends and 
companions, of our rivals and competitors, may have actual¬ 
ly arrived at. We very seldom (I am disposed to think, we 
never) attempt to judge of ourselves without giving more or 
less attention to both these different standards. But the at¬ 
tention of different men, and even of the same man at dif* 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE. 


337 


ferent times, is often very unequally divided between them; 
and is sometimes principally directed towards the one, and 
sometimes towards the other. 

So far as our attention is directed towards the first standard, 
the wisest and best of us all, can, in his own character and 
conduct, see nothing but weakness and imperfection; can dis¬ 
cover no ground for arrogance and presumption, but a great 
deal for humility, regret, and repentance. So far as our at¬ 
tention is directed towards the second, we may be affected 
either in the one way or in the other, and feel ourselves, ei¬ 
ther really above, or really below, the standard to which we 
compare ourselves. 

The wise and virtuous man directs his principal attention 
to the first standard; the idea of exact propriety and per¬ 
fection. There exists in the mind of every man an idea of 
this kind, gradually formed from his observations upon the 
character and conduct both of himself and of other people. 
It is the slow, gradual, and progressive work of the great 
demi-god within the breast, the great judge and arbiter of 
conduct. This idea is in every man more or less accurately 
drawn, its coloring is more or less just, its outlines are more 
or less exactly designed, according to the delicacy and acute¬ 
ness of that sensibility, with which those observations were 
made, and according to the care and attention employed in 
making them. In the wise and virtuous man they have 
been made with the most acute and delicate sensibility, 
and the utmost care and attention have been employed in 
making them. Every day some feature is improved; every 
day some blemish is corrected. He has studied this idea 
more than other people, he comprehends it more distinctly, 
he has formed a much more correct image of it, and is much 
more deeply enamoured of its exquisite and divine beauty. 
He endeavours, as well as he can, to assimilate his own cha¬ 
racter to this archetype of perfection. But he imitates the 
work of a divine artist, which can never be equalled. He 
feels the imperfect success of all his best endeavours, and 
sees, with grief and affliction, in how many different fea- 

2 u 


338 


OP THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


lures the mortal copy falls short of the immortal original. 
He remembers, with concern and humiliation, how often* 
from want of attention, from want of judgment, from want 
of temper, he has, both in words and actions, both in con¬ 
duct and conversation, violated the exact rules of perfect 
propriety, and has so far departed from that model* accord¬ 
ing to which he wished to fashion his own character and 
conduct. When he directs his attention towards the second 
standard, indeed, that degree of excellence which his friends 
and acquaintances have commonly arrived at, he may be sen¬ 
sible of his own superiority. But, as his principal attention 
is always directed towards the first standard, he is necessarily 
much more humbled by the one comparison than he ever 
can be elevated by the other. He is never so elated as to 
look down with insolence even upon those who are really 
below him. He feels so well his own imperfection, he 
knows so well the difficulty with which he attained his own 
distant approximation to rectitude, that he cannot regard 
with contempt the still greater imperfection of other people. 
Far from insulting over their inferiority, he views it with 
the most indulgent commiseration, and, by his advice as well 
as example, is at all times willing to promote their further 
advancement. If, in any particular qualification, they hap¬ 
pen to be superior to him, (for who is so perfect as not to 
have many superiors in many different qualifications?) far 
from envying their superiority, he, who knows how difficult 
it is to excel, esteems and honours their excellence, and ne¬ 
ver fails to betow upon it the full measure of applause which 
it deserves. His whole mind, in short, is deeply impressed, 
his whole behaviour and deportment are distinctly stamped 
with the character of real modesty; with that of a very mo¬ 
derate estimation of his own merit, and, at the same time, 
of a full sense of the merit of other people. 

In all the liberal and ingenious arts, in painting, in poetry, 
in music, in eloquence, in philosophy, the great artist feels 
always the real imperfection of his own best works, and is 
more sensible than any man how much they fall short of that 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE. 


339 


ideal perfection of which he has formed some conception, 
which he imitates as well as he can, but which he despairs 
of ever equalling. It is the inferior artist only, who is ever 
perfectly satisfied with his own performances. He has little 
conception of this ideal perfection, about which he has little 
employed his thoughts*, and it is chiefly to the works of o- 
ther artists, of, perhaps, a still lower order, that he deigns 
to compare his own works. Boileau, the great French poet, 
(in some of his works, perhaps not inferior to the greatest 
poet of the same kind, either ancient or modern,) used to 
say that no great man was ever completely satisfied with his 
own works. His acquaintance Santeuil, (a writer of Latin vers¬ 
es, and who, on account of that school-boy accomplishment, 
had the weakness to fancy himself a poet) assured him that 
he himself was always completely satisfied with his own. 
Boileau replied, with, perhaps, an arch ambiguity, That he 
certainly was the only great man that ever was so. Boileau, in 
judging of his own works, compared them with the standard 
of ideal perfection, which, in his own particular branch of 
the poetic art, he had, I presume, meditated as deeply, and 
conceived as distinctly, as it is possible for man to conceive 
it. Santeuil, in judging of his own works, compared them, 
I suppose, chiefly to those of the other Latin poets of his own 
time, to the greater part of whom he was certainly very_ far 
from being inferior. But to support and finish off, if I may- 
say so, the conduct and conversation of a whole life to some 
resemblance of this ideal perfection, is surely much more 
difficult than to work up to an equal resemblance any of 
the productions of any of the ingenious arts. The artist sits 
down to his work undisturbed, at leisure, in the full possession 
and recollection of all his skill, experience, and knowledge. 
The wise man must support the propriety of his own conduct 
in health and in sickness, in success, and in disappointment, 
in the hour of fatigue and drowsy indolence, as well as in 
that of the most awakened attention. The most sudden and 
unexpected assaults of difficulty and distress must never sur¬ 
prise him. The injustice of other people must never provoke 

2 u 2 


340 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


him to injustice. The violence of faction must never con¬ 
found him. All the hardships and hazards of war must never 
either dishearten or appal him. 

Of the persons who, in estimating their own merit, in 
judging of their own character and conduct, direct by far 
the greater part of their attention to the second standard, to 
that ordinary degree of excellence which is commonly at¬ 
tained by other people, there are some who really and just¬ 
ly feel themselves very much above it, and who, by every 
intelligent and impartial spectator, are acknowledged to be 
so. The attention of such persons, however, being always 
principally directed, not to the standard of ideal, but to that 
of ordinary perfection, they have little sense of their own 
weaknesses and imperfections; they have little modesty; 
are often assuming, arrogant, and presumptuous; great ad¬ 
mirers of themselves, and great contemners of other peo¬ 
ple. Though their characters are in general much less cor¬ 
rect, and their merit much inferior to that of the man of 
real and modest virtue; yet their excessive presumption, 
founded upon their own excessive self-admiration, dazzles 
the multitude, and often imposes even upon those who are 
much superior to the multitude. The frequent, and often 
wonderful, success of the most ignorant quacks and impostors, 
both civil and religious, sufficiently demonstrate how easily 
the multitude are imposed upon by the most extravagant and 
groundless pretensions. But when those pretensions are 
supported by a very high degree of real and solid merit, 
when they are displayed with all the splendour which ostenta¬ 
tion can bestow upon them, when they are supported bv 
high rank and great power, when they have often been suc¬ 
cessfully exerted, and are, upon that account, attended by 
the loud acclamations of the multitude; even the man of so¬ 
ber judgment often abandons himself to the general admira¬ 
tion. The very noise of those foolish acclamations often con¬ 
tributes to confound his understanding, and while he sees 
those great men only at a certain distance, he is often dis¬ 
posed to worship them with a sincere admiration, superior 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE. 


341 


even to that with which they appear to worship themselves. 
When there is no envy in the case, we all take pleasure in 
admiring, and are, upon that account, naturally disposed, in 
our own fancies, to render complete and perfect in every re¬ 
spect the characters which, in many respects, are so very 
worthy of admiration. The excessive self-admiration of those 
great men is well understood, perhaps, and even seen through, 
with some degree of derision, by those -wise men who are 
much in their familiarity, and who secretly smile at those 
lofty pretensions, which, by people at a distance, are often 
regarded with reverence, and almost with adoration. Such, 
however, have been, in all ages, the greater part of those 
men who have procured to themselves the most noisy fame, 
the most extensive reputation, a fame and reputation too, 
which have often descended to the remotest posterity. 

Great success in the world, great authority over the sen¬ 
timents and opinions of mankind, have very seldom been 
acquired without some degree of this excessive self admira¬ 
tion. The most splendid characters, the men who have per¬ 
formed the most illustrious actions, who have brought about 
the greatest revolutions, both in the situations and opinions 
of mankind; the most successful warriors, the greatest states¬ 
men and legislators, the eloquent founders and leaders of the 
most numerous and most successful sects and parties; have 
many of them been, not more distinguished for their very 
great merit, than for a degree of presumption and self-admi¬ 
ration altogether disproportioned even to that very great mer¬ 
it. This presumption was, perhaps, necessary, not only to 
prompt them to undertakings which a more sober mind 
would never have thought of, but to command the submis¬ 
sion and obedience of their followers to support them in such 
undertakings. When crowned with success, accordingly, 
this presumption has often betrayed them into a vanity that 
approached almost to insanity and folly. Alexander the 
Great appears, not only to have wished that other people 
should think him a god, but to have been at least very well 
disposed to fancy himself such. Upon his death-bed, the 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


-m 

most ungodlike of all situations, he requested of his friends 
that, to the respectable list of deities, into which himself had 
long before been inserted, his old mother Olympia, might 
likewise have the honour of being added. Amidst the re¬ 
spectful admiration of his followers and disciples, amidst the 
universal applause of the public, after the oracle, which pro¬ 
bably had followed the voice of that applause, had pronounc¬ 
ed him the wisest of men, the great wisdom of Socrates, 
though it did not suffer him to fancy himself a god, yet was 
not great enough to hinder him from fancying that he had 
secret and frequent intimations from some invisible and di¬ 
vine Being. The sound head of Caesar was not so perfectly 
sound as to hinder him being much pleased with his divine 
genealogy from the goddess Venus; and, before the temple 
of this pretended great-grandmother, to receive, without ri¬ 
sing from his seat, the Roman Senate, when that illustrious 
body came to present him with some decrees conferring upon 
him the most extravagant honours. This insolence, joined 
to some other acts of an almost childish vanity, little to be 
expected from an understanding at once so very acute and 
comprehensive, seems, by exasperating the public jealousy, 
to have emboldened his assassins, and to have hastened the 
execution of their conspiracy. The religion and manners of 
modern times give our great men little encouragement to 
fancy themselves either gods or even prophets. Success, 
however, joined to great popular favour, has often so far 
turned the heads of the greatest of them, as to make them 
ascribe to themselves both an importance and an ability much 
beyond what they really possessed; and, by this presumption, 
to precipitate themselves into many rash and sometimes ru¬ 
inous adventures. It is a characteristic almost peculiar to the 
great Duke of Marlborough, that ten years of such uninter¬ 
rupted and such splendid success as scarce any other general 
could boast of, never betrayed him into a single rash action, 
scarce into a single rash word or expression. The same 
temperate coolness and self-command cannot, I think, be as¬ 
cribed to any other great warrior of later times; not to 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE. 


S4S 


Prince Eugene, not to the late King of Prussia, not to the 
great Prince of Conde, not even to Gustavus Adolphus. 
Turenne seems to have approached the nearest to it 5 but se¬ 
veral different transactions of his life sufficiently demon¬ 
strate, that it was in him by no means so perfect as in the 
great Duke of Marlborough. 

In the humble projects of private life, as well as in the 
ambitious and proud pursuits of high stations, great abilities 
and successful enterprise, in the beginning, have frequently 
encouraged to undertakings which necessarily led to bank¬ 
ruptcy and ruin in the end. 

The esteem and admiration which every impartial specta¬ 
tor conceives for the real merit of those spirited, magnani¬ 
mous, and high-minded persons, as it is a just and-well- 
founded sentiment, so it is a steady and permanent one, and 
and altogether independent of their good or bad fortune. 
It is otherwise with that admiration which he is apt to con¬ 
ceive for their excessive self-estimation and presumption. 
While they are successful, indeed, he is often perfectly con¬ 
quered and overborne by them. Success covers from his 
eyes, not only the great imprudence, but frequently the 
great injustice of their enterprises; and, far from blaming 
this defective part of their character, he often views it with 
the most enthusiastic admiration. When they are unfortu¬ 
nate, however, things change their colours and their names. 
What was before heroic magnanimity, resumes its proper ap¬ 
pellation of extravagant rashness and folly; and the black¬ 
ness of that avidity and injustice, which was before hid under 
the splendour of prosperity, comes full into view, and blots 
the whole lustre of their enterprise. Had Caesar, instead of 
gaining, lost the battle of Pharsalia, his character would, at 
this hour, have ranked a little above that of Cat aline, and 
the weakest man would have viewed his enterprise against 
the laws of his country in blacker colours, than, perhaps, e- 
ven Cato, with all the animosity of a party-man, ever viewed 
it at the time. His real merit, the justness of his taste, the 
simplicity and elegance of his writings, the propriety of his 


344 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


eloquence, his skill in war, his resources in distress, his cool 
and sedate judgment in danger, his faithful attachment to 
his friends, his unexampled generosity to his enemies, would 
all have been acknowledged; as the real merit of Catiline, 
who had many great qualities is acknowledged at this day. 
But the insolence and injustice of his all-grasping ambition 
would have darkened and extinguished the glory of all that 
real merit. Fortune has in this, as well as in some other re¬ 
spects already mentioned, great influence over the moral sen¬ 
timents of mankind, and, according as she is either favourable 
or adverse, can render the same character the object, either of 
general love and admiration, or of universal hatred and con¬ 
tempt. This great disorder in our moral sentiments is by 
no means, however, without its utility; and we may on this, 
as well as on many other occasions, admire the wisdom of 
God even in the weakness and folly of man. Our admira¬ 
tion of success is founded upon the same principle with our 
respect for wealth and greatness, and is equally necessary 
for establishing the distinction of ranks and the order of so¬ 
ciety. By this admiration of success we are taught to sub¬ 
mit more easily to those superiors, whom the course of hu¬ 
man affairs may assign to us; to regard with reverence, and 
sometimes even with a sort of respectful affection, that for¬ 
tunate violence which we are no longer capable of resisting; 
not only the violence of such splendid characters as those of 
a Caesar or an Alexander, but often that of the most brutal 
and savage barbarians, of an Attila, a Gengis, or a Tamer¬ 
lane. To all such mighty conquerers the great mob of man¬ 
kind are naturally disposed to look up with a wondering, 
though, no doubt, with a very weak and foolish admiration. 
By this admiration, however, they are taught to acquiesce 
with less reluctance under that government which an irresist¬ 
ible force imposes upon them, and from which no reluctance 
could deliver them. 

Though in prosperity, however, the man of excessive self¬ 
estimation may sometimes appear to have some advantage over 
the man of correct and modest virtue; though the applause 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE. 


;4<5 


of the multitude, and of those who see them both only at a 
distance, is often much louder in favour of the one than it e- 
ver is in favour of the other*, yet, all things fairly computed, 
the real balance of advantage is, perhaps in all cases, greatly in 
favour of the latter and against the former. The man who nei¬ 
ther ascribes to himself, nor wishes that other people should as¬ 
cribe to him, any other merit besides that which really belongs 
to him, fears no humiliation, dreads no detection; but rests 
contented and secure upon the genuine truth and solidity of 
his own character. His admirers may neither be very nu¬ 
merous nor very loud in their applauses; but the wisest man 
who sees him the nearest and who knows him the best, ad¬ 
mires him the most. To a real wise man the judicious and 
well-weighed approbation of a single wise man, gives more 
heartfelt satisfaction than all the noisy applauses of ten thou¬ 
sand ignorant though enthusiastic admirers. He may say 
with Parmenides, who upon reading a philosophical discourse 
before a public assembly at Athens, and observing, that, ex¬ 
cept Plato, the whole company had left him, continued, not¬ 
withstanding, to read on, and said that Plato alone was au¬ 
dience sufficient for him. 

It is otherwise with the man of excessive self-estimation. 
The wise men who see him the nearest, admire him the 
least. Amidst the intoxication of prosperity, their sober and 
just esteem falls so far short of the extravagance of his own self¬ 
admiration, that he regards it as mere malignity and envy. 
He suspects his best friends. Their company becomes of¬ 
fensive to him. He drives them from his presence, and often 
rewards their services not only with ingratitude, but with 
cruelty arid injustice. He abandons his confidence to flatter¬ 
ers and traitors, who pretend to idolize his vanity and pre¬ 
sumption; and that character in which the beginning, though 
in some respects defective, was, upon the whole both amia¬ 
ble and respectable, becomes contemptible and odious in the 
end. Amidst the intoxication of prosperity, Alexander kil¬ 
led Clytus, for having preferred the exploits of his father 
Philip to his own; put Caiisthenes to death in torture, for 

2 x 


346 


OF TriE CHARACTER 


Part VI* 


having refused to adore him in the Persian manner; and 
murdered the great friend of his father, the venerable Par- 
menio, after having, upon the most groundless suspicions, 
sent first to the torture and afterwards to the scaffold the 
only remaining son of that old man, the rest having all before 
died in his own service. This was that Parmenioof whom Phi¬ 
lip used to say, that the Athenians were very fortunate who 
could find ten generals every year, while he himself, in the 
whole course of his life, could never find one but Parmenio. 
It was upon the vigilance and attention of this Parmenio, 
that he reposed at all times with confidence and security, and, 
in his hours of mirth and jollity, used to say, Let us drink, my 
friends, we may do it with safety, for Parmenio never drinks. 
It was this same Parmenio, with whose presence and counsel, it 
had been said, Alexander had gained all his victories; and with¬ 
out whose presence and counsel he had never gained a single 
victory. The humble, admiring, and flattering friends, whom 
Alexander left in power and authority behind him, divided his 
empire among themselves, and after having thus robbed his fa¬ 
mily and kindred of their inheritance, put, one after another, 
every single surviving individual of them, whether male or fe¬ 
male, to death. 

We frequently not only pardon, but thoroughly enter into 
and sympathize with the excessive self-estimation of those 
splendid characters in which we observe a great and distin¬ 
guished superiority above the common level of mankind. 
We call them spirited, magnanimous, and high-minded; 
words which all involve in their meaning a considerable de¬ 
gree of praise and admiration. But we cannot enter into 
and sympathize with the excessive self-estimation of those 
characters in which we can discern no such distinguished su ¬ 
periority. We are disgusted and revolted by it; and it is 
with some difficulty that we can either pardon or suffer it. 
We call it pride or vanity; two words, of which the latter 
always, and the former for the most part, involve in their 
meaning a considerable degree of blame. 

Those two vices, however, though resembling, in some re- 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE. 


S*7 


spects, as being both modifications of excessive self estimation, 
are yet, in many respects, very different from one another. 

The proud man is sincere, and, in the bottom of his heart, 
is convinced of his own superiority; though it may sometimes 
be difficult to guess upon what that conviction is founded. 
He wishes you to view him in no other light than that in 
which, when he places himself in your situation, he really 
views himself. He demands no more of you than what he 
thinks justice. If you appear not to respect him as he re¬ 
spects himself, he is more offended than mortified, and feels 
the same indignant resentment as if he had suffered a real 
injury. He does not even then, however, deign to explain 
the grounds of his pretensions. He disdains to court your 
esteem. He affects even to despise it, and endeavours to 
maintain his assumed station, not so much by making you 
sensible of his superiority, as of your own meanness. He 
seems to wish, not so much to excite your esteem for himself \ 
as to mortify that for yourself. 

The vain man is not sincere, and, in the bottom of his 
heart, is very seldom convinced of that superiority which he 
wishes you to ascribe to him. He wishes you to view him 
in much more splendid colours than those in which, when 
he places himself in your situation, and supposes you to know 
all that he knows, he can really view himself. When you'ap- 
pear to view him, therefore, in different colours, perhaps in 
his proper colours, he is much more mortified than offended. 
The grounds of his claim to that character which he wishes 
you to ascribe to him, he takes every opportunity of display¬ 
ing, both by the most ostentatious and unnecessary exhibition 
of the good qualities and accomplishments which he possesses 
in some tolerable degree, and sometimes even by fal.se pre¬ 
tentions to those which he either possesses, in no degree, or 
in so very slender a degree that he may well enough be said, 
to possess them in no degree. Far from despising your e- 
steem, he courts it with the most anxious assiduity. Far 
from wishing to mortify your self-estimation, he is happy to 
cherish it, in hopes that in return you will cherish his own. 
He flatters in order to be flattered. He studies to please, 

2x2 


348 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


and endeavours to bribe you into a good opinion of him by 
politeness and complaisance, and sometimes even by real and 
essential good offices, though often displayed, perhaps, with 
unnecessary ostentation. 

The vain man sees the respect which is paid to rank and 
fortune, and wishes to usurp this respect, as well as that for 
talents and virtues. His dress, his equipage, his way of liv¬ 
ing, accordingly, all announce both a higher rank and a great¬ 
er fortune than really belongs to him; and in order to sup¬ 
port this foolish imposition for a few years in the beginning 
of his life, he often reduces himself to poverty and distress 
long before the end of it. As long as he can continue his ex¬ 
pence, however, his vanity is delighted with viewing himself 
not in the light in which you would view him if you knew 
all that he knows; but in that in which, he imagines, he has, 
by his own address, induced you actually to view him. Of 
all the illusions of vanity this is, perhaps, the most common. 
Obscure strangers who visit foreign countries, or who, from 
a remote province, come to visit, for a short time, the capital 
of their own country, most frequently attempt to practise it. 
The folly of the attempt, though always very great and most 
unworthy of a man of sense, may not be altogether so great 
upon such as upon most other occasions. If their stay is 
short, they may escape any disgraceful detection; and, after 
indulging their vanity for a few months or a few years, they 
may return to their own homes, and repair, by future parsi¬ 
mony, the waste of their past profusion. 

The proud man can very seldom be accused of this folly. 
His sense of his own dignity renders him careful to preserve 
his independency, and, when his fortune happens not to be 
large, though he wishes to be decent, he studies to be frugal 
and attentive in all his expences. The ostentatious expence 
of the vain man is highly offensive to him. It outshines, 
perhaps, his own. It provokes his indignation as an insolent 
assumption of a rank which is by no means due; and he ne¬ 
ver talks of it without loading it with the harshest and sever¬ 
est reproaches. 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE. 


349 


The proud man does not always feel himself at his ease in 
the company of his equals, and still less in that of his supe¬ 
riors. He cannot lay down his lofty pretensions, and the 
countenance and conversation of such company overawe him 
so much that he dare not display them. He has recourse to 
humbler company, for which he has little respect, which he 
would not willingly chuse, and which is by no means agreea¬ 
ble to him; that of his inferiors, his flatterers, and depend¬ 
ants. He seldom visits his superiors, or, if he does, it is ra¬ 
ther to show that he is entitled to live in such company, than 
for any real satisfaction that he enjoys in it. It is as Lord 
Clarendon says of the Earl of Arundel, that he sometimes 
went to court, because he could there only find a greater man 
than himself; but that he went very seldom, because he 
found there a greater man than himself. 

It is quite otherwise with the vain man. He courts the 
company of his superiors as much as the proud man shuns it. 
Their splendour, he seems to think, reflects a splendour upon 
those who are much about them. He haunts the courts of 
of kings and the levees of ministers, and gives himself the air 
of being a candidate for fortune and preferment, when in 
reality he possesses the much more precious happiness, if he 
knew how to enjoy it, of not being one. He is fond of be¬ 
ing admitted to the tables of the great, and still more fond 
of magnifying to other people the familiarity with which he 
is honoured there. He associates himself, as much as he can, 
with fashionable people, with those who are supposed to di¬ 
rect the public opinion, with the witty, with the learned, with 
the popular; and he shuns the company of his best friends 
whenever the very uncertain current of public favour happens 
to run in any respect against them. With the people to 
whom he wishes to recommend himself, he is not always ve¬ 
ry delicate about the means which he employs for that pur¬ 
pose; unnecessary ostentation, groundless pretentions, con¬ 
stant assentation, frequently flattery, though for the most 
part a pleasant and a sprightly flattery, and very seldom the 
gross and fulsome flattery of a parasite. The proud man, 




OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


on the contrary, never flatters, and is frequently scarce civil 
to any body. 

Notwithstanding all its groundless pretentions, how¬ 
ever, vanity is almost always a sprightly and a gay, and very 
often a good-natured passion. Pride is always a grave, a sul¬ 
len, and a severe one. Even the falsehoods of the vain man 
are all innocent falsehoods, meant to raise himself, not to 
lower other people. To do the proud man justice, he very 
seldom stoops to the baseness of falsehood. When he does, 
however, his falsehoods are by no means so innocent. They 
are all mischievous, and meant to lower other people. He 
is full of indignation at the unjust superiority, as he thinks 
it, which is given to them. He views them with malignity 
and envy, and, in talking of them, often endeavours, as much 
as he can, to extenuate and lessen whatever are the grounds 
upon which their superiority is supposed to be founded. 
Whatever tales are circulated to their disadvantage, though 
he seldom forges them himself, yet he often takes pleasure 
in believing them, is by no means unwilling to repeat them, 
and even sometimes with some degree of exaggeration. The 
worst falsehoods of vanity are all what we call white lies: 
those of pride, whenever it condescends to falsehood, are all 
of the opposite complexion. 

Our dislike to pride and vanity generally disposes us to 
rank the persons whom we accuse of those vices rather be¬ 
low than above the common level. In this judgment how¬ 
ever, I think, we are most frequently in the wrong, and that 
both the proud and the vain man are often (perhaps for the 
most part) a good deal above it; though not near so much as 
either the one really thinks himself, or as the other wishes 
you to think him. If we compare them with their own pre¬ 
tensions, they may appear the just objects of contempt. But 
when we compare them with what the greater part of their 
rivals and competitors really are, they may appear quite other¬ 
wise, and very much above the common level. Where there 
is this real superiority, pride is frequently attended with many 
respectable virtues; with truth, with integrity, with a high 


Sect. III. 


OP VIRTUE. 


351 


sense of honour, with cordial and steady friendship, with the 
most inflexible firmness and resolution. Vanity, with many 
amiable ones; with humanity, with politeness, with a desire 
to oblige in all little matters, and sometimes with a real ge¬ 
nerosity in great ones; a generosity, however, which it often 
wishes to display in the most splendid colours that it can. 
By their rivals and enemies, the French, in the last century, 
were accused of vanity; the Spaniards, of pride; and foreign 
nations were disposed to consider the one, as the more amia¬ 
ble; the other, as the more respectable people. 

The words vain and vanity , are never taken in a good 
sense. We sometimes say of a man, when we are talking 
of him in good-humour, that he is the better for his vanity, 
or that his vanity is more diverting than offensive; but we 
still consider it as a foible and a ridicule in his character. 

The words proud and pride, on the contrary, are some¬ 
times taken in a good sense. We frequently say of a man, 
that he is too proud, or that he has too much noble pride, 
ever to suffer himself to do a mean thing. Pride is, in this 
case, confounded with magnanimity. Aristotle, a philoso¬ 
pher who certainly knew the world, in drawing the character 
of the magnanimous man, paints him with many features 
which, in the two last centuries, were commonly ascribed to 
the Spanish character: that he was deliberate in all his re¬ 
solutions; slow, and even tardy, in all his actions; that his 
voice was grave, his speech deliberate, his step and motion 
slow; that he appeared indolent and even slothful, not at all 
disposed to bustle about little matters, but to act with the 
most determinate and vigorous resolution upon all great and 
illustrious occasions; that he was not a lover of danger, or 
forward to expose himself to little dangers; but to great dan¬ 
gers ; and that, when he exposed himself to danger, he was 
altogether regardless of his life. 

The proud man is commonly too well contented with 
himself to think that his character requires any amendment. 
The man who feels himself all-perfect, naturally enough despis¬ 
es all further improvement. His self sufficiency and absurb 


352 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


conceit of his own superiority commonly attend him from his 
youth to his most advanced age; and he dies, as Hamlet says, 
with all his sins upon his head, unanointed, unaneled. 

It is frequently quite otherwise with the vain man. The 
desire of the esteem and admiration of other people, when 
for qualities and talents which are the natural and proper ob¬ 
jects of esteem and admiration, is the real love of true glory; 
a passion which, if not the very best passion of human na¬ 
ture, is certainly one of the best. Vanity is very frequently 
no more than an attempt prematurely to usurp that glory be¬ 
fore it is due. Though your son, under five-and-twenty 
years of age, should be but a coxcomb; do not, upon that 
account, despair of his becoming, before he is forty, a very 
wise and worthy man, and a real proficient in all those talents 
and virtues to which, at present, he may only be an ostenta¬ 
tious and empty pretender. The great secret of education 
is to direct vanity to proper objects. Never suffer him to 
value himself upon trivial accomplishments. But do not al¬ 
ways discourage his pretentions to those that are of real im¬ 
portance. He would not pretend to them if he did not earn¬ 
estly desire to possess them. Encourage this desire; afford 
him every means to facilitate the acquisition; and do not 
take too much offence, although he should sometimes assume 
the air of having attained it a little before the time. 

Such, I say, are the distinguishing characteristics of pride 
and vanity, when each of them acts according to its proper 
character. But the proud man is often vain; and the vain 
man is often proud. Nothing can be more natural than that 
the man, who thinks much more highly of himself than he 
deserves, should wish that other people should think still 
more highly of him: or that the man, who wishes that other 
people should think more highly of him than he thinks of 
himself, should, at the same time, think much more highly 
of himself than he deserves. Those two vices being fre¬ 
quently blended in the same character, the characteristics of 
both are necessarily confounded; and we sometimes find the 
superficial and impertinent ostentation of vanity joined to the 


Sect. III. 


OP VIRTUE. 


353 


most malignant and derisive insolence of pride. We are some¬ 
times, upon that account, at a loss how to rank a particular 
character, or whether to place it among the proud, or among 
the vain. 

Men of merit considerably above the common level, some¬ 
times under-rate as well as over-rate themselves. Such char¬ 
acters, though not very dignified, are often, in private society, 
far from being disagreeable. His companions all feel them¬ 
selves much at their ease in the society of a man so perfectly 
modest and unassuming. If those companions, however, 
have not both more discernment and more generosity than 
ordinary, though they may have some kindness for him, they 
have seldom much respect; and the warmth of their kind¬ 
ness is very seldom sufficient to compensate the coldness of 
their respect. Men of no more than ordinary discernment 
never rate any person higher than he appears to rate himself. 
He seems doubtful himself, they say, whether he is perfectly 
fit for such a situation or such an office; and immediately give 
the preference to some impudent blockhead who entertains no 
doubt about his own qualifications. Though they should have 
discernment, yet, if they want generosity, they never fail to 
take advantage of his simplicity, and to assume over him an 
impertinent superiority which they are by no means entitled to. 
His good-nature may enable him to bear this for some time; 
but he grows weary at last, and frequently when it is too 
late, and when that rank, which he ought to have assumed, 
is lost irrecoverably, and usurped, in consequence of his own 
backwardness, by some of his more forward, though much 
less meritorious companions. A man of this character must 
have been very fortunate in the early choice of his compa¬ 
nions, if, in going through the world, he meets always with 
fair justice, even from those whom, from his own past kind¬ 
ness, he might have some reason to consider as his best friends; 
and a youth, too unassuming and too unambitious, is fre¬ 
quently followed by an insignificant, complaining, and discon¬ 
tented old age. 

Those unfortunate persons whom nature has formed a 

2 Y 


354 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


good deal below the common level, seem sometimes to rate 
themselves still more below it than they really are. This hu¬ 
mility appears sometimes to sink them into idiotism. Who¬ 
ever has taken the trouble to examine idiots with attention, 
will find that, in many of them, the faculties of the under¬ 
standing are by no means weaker than in several other peo¬ 
ple, who, though acknowledged to be dull and stupid, are 
not, by any body, accounted idiots. Many idiots, with no 
more than ordinary education, have been taught to read, 
write, and account tolerably well. Many persons, never ac¬ 
counted idiots, notwithstanding the most careful education, 
and, notwithstanding that, in their advanced age, they have 
had spirit enough to attempt to learn what their early educa¬ 
tion had not taught them, have never been able to acquire 
in any tolerable degree, any one of those three accomplish¬ 
ments. By an instinct of pride, however, they set themselves 
upon a level with their equals in age and situation ; and, with 
courage and firmness, maintain their proper station among 
their companions. By an opposite instinct, the idiot feels 
himself below every company into which you can introduce 
him. Ill usage, to which he is extremely liable, is capable 
of throwing him into the most violent fits of rage and fury. 
But no good usage, no kindness or indulgence, can ever raise 
him to converse with you as your equal. If you can bring 
him to converse with you at all, however, you will frequently 
find his answers sufficiently pertinent, and even sensible. 
But they are always stamped with a distinct consciousness of 
his own great inferiority. He seems to shrink and, as it 
were, to retire from your look and conversation j and to feel 
when he places himself in your situation, that, notwithstand¬ 
ing your apparent condescension, you cannot help consider¬ 
ing him as immensely below you. Some idiots, perhaps the 
greater part, seem to be so, chiefly or altogether, from a cer¬ 
tain numbness or torpidity in the faculties of the understand¬ 
ing. But there are others, in whom those faculties do not 
appear more torpid or benumbed than in many other people 
who are not accounted idiots. But tnat instinct of pride, ne- 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE. 


S 55 


cessary to support them upon an equality with their brethren, 
seems totally wanting in the former and not in the latter. 

That degree of self-estimation, therefore, which contri¬ 
butes most to the happiness and contentment of the person 
himself, seems likewise most agreeable to the impartial spec¬ 
tator. The man who esteems himself as he ought, and no 
more than he ought, seldom fails to obtain from other people 
all the esteem that he himself thinks due. He desires no 
more than is due to him, and he rests upon it with complete 
satisfaction. 

The proud and the vain man, on the contrary, are con¬ 
stantly dissatisfied. The one is tormented with indignation 
at the unjust superiority, as he thinks it, of other people. 
The other is in continual dread of the shame which, he fore r 
sees, would attend upon the detection of his groundless pre¬ 
tensions. Even the extravagant pretentions of the man of 
real magnanimity, though, when supported by splendid abili¬ 
ties and virtues, and above all, by good fortune, they impose 
upon the multitude, whose applauses he little regards, do 
not impose upon those wise men whose approbation he can 
only value, and whose esteem he is most anxious to acquire. 
He feels that they see through, and suspects that they de¬ 
spise his excessive presumption y and he often suffers the cru¬ 
el misfortune of becoming, first the jealous and secret, and at 
last the open, furious, and vindictive enemy of those very per¬ 
sons, whose friendship it would have given him the greatest 
happiness to enjoy with unsuspicious security. 

Though our dislike to the proud and the vain often dis¬ 
poses us to rank them rather below than above their proper 
station, yet, unless we are provoked by some particular and 
personal impertinence, we very seldom venture to use them 
ill. In common cases, we endeavour for our own ease* rather 
to acquiesce, and, as well as we can, to accommodate ourselves 
to their folly. But, to the man who under-rates himself, un¬ 
less we have both more discernment and more generosity than 
belong to the greater part of men, we seldom fail to do, at 
least, all the injustice which he does to himself, andfrequent- 

2 y 2 


356 


OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


ly a great deal more. He is not only more unhappy in his 
in his own feelings than either the proud or the vain, but he 
is much more liable to every sort of ill-usage from other peo¬ 
ple. In almost all cases, it is better to be a little too proud, 
than, in any respect, too humble; and, in the sentiment of 
self-estimation, some degree of excess seems, both to the per¬ 
son himself and to the impartial spectator, to be less disagree¬ 
able than any degree of defect. 

In this, therefore, as well as in every other emotion, pas¬ 
sion, and habit, the degree that is most agreeable to the im¬ 
partial spectator is likewise most agreeable to the person him¬ 
self; and according as either the excess or the defect is least 
offensive to the former, so, either the one or the other is in 
proportion least disagreeable to the latter. 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE. 


357 


CONCLUSION OF THE SIXTH PART 


CONCERN for our own happiness recommends to us the 
virtue of prudence: concern for that of other people, the 
virtues of justice and beneficence; of which, the one restrains 
us from hurting, the other prompts us to promote that hap¬ 
piness. Independent of any regard either to what are, or to 
what ought to be, or to what upon a certain condition would 
be, the sentiments of other people, the first of those three 
virtues is originally recommended to us by our selfish, the 
other two by our benevolent affections. Regard to the sen¬ 
timents of other people, however, comes afterwards both to 
enforce and to direct the practice of all those virtues; and 
no man during, either the whole course of his life, or that of 
any considerable part of it, ever trod steadily and uniformly 
in the paths of prudence, of justice, or of proper beneficence, 
whose conduct was not principally directed by a regard to 
the sentiments of the supposed impartial spectator, of the 
great inmate of the breast, the great judge and arbiter of con¬ 
duct. If in the course of the day we have swerved in any 
respect from the rules which he prescribes to us; if we have 
either exceeded or relaxed in our frugality; if we have either 
exceeded or relaxed in our industry; if, through passion or 
inadventency, we have hurt in any respect the interest or 
happiness of our neighbour; if we have neglected a plain and 
proper opportunity of promoting that interest and happiness; 
it is this inmate who, in the evening, calls us to an account 
for all those omissions and violations, and his reproaches of¬ 
ten make us blush inwardly both for our folly and inattention 
to our own happiness, and for our still greater indifference 
and inattention, perhaps, to that of other people. 





OF THE CHARACTER 


Part VI. 


858 


But though the virtues of prudence, justice, and benefi¬ 
cence, may, upon different occasions, be recommended to us 
almost equally by two different principles; those of self-com¬ 
mand are, upon most occasions, principally and almost en¬ 
tirely recommended to us by one; by the sense of propriety, 
by regard to the sentiments of the supposed impartial spec¬ 
tator. Without the restraint which this principle imposes, 
every passion would, upon most occasions, rush headlong, if 
I may say so, to its own gratification. Anger would follow 
the suggestions of its own fury; fear those of its own vio¬ 
lent agitations. Regard to no time or place would induce 
vanity to refrain from the loudest and most impertinent os¬ 
tentation; or voluptuousness from the most open, indecent, 
and scandalous indulgence. Respect for what are, or for 
what ought to be, or for what upon a certain condition would 
be, the sentiments of other people, is the sole principle which, 
upon most occasions, overawes all those mutinous and turbu¬ 
lent passions into that tone and temper which the impartial 
spectator can enter into and sympathize with. 

Upon some occasions, indeed, those passions are restrained, 
not so much by a sense of their impropriety, as by pruden¬ 
tial considerations of the bad consequences which might fol¬ 
low from their indulgence. In such cases, the passions, 
though restrained, are not always subdued, but often re¬ 
main lurking in the breast with all their original fury. The 
man whose anger is restrained by fear, does not always lay 
aside his anger, but only reserves its gratification for a more 
safe opportunity. But the man who, in relating to some o? 
ther person the injury which has been done to him, feels at 
once the fury of his passion cooled and becalmed by sympathy 
with the more moderate sentiments of his companion, who 
at once adopts those more moderate sentiments, and comes 
to view that injury, not in the black and atrocious colours 
in which he had originally beheld it, but in the much milder 
and fairer light, in which his companion naturally views it; 
not only restrains, but in some measure subdues, his anger. 
The passion becomes really less than it was before, and less 


Sect. III. 


OF VIRTUE. 


359 


capable of exciting Kim to the violent and bloody revenge 
which at first, perhaps, he might have thought of inflicting! 

Those passions which are restrained by the sense of pro¬ 
priety, are all in some degree moderated and subdued by it. 
But those which are restrained only by prudential considera¬ 
tions of any kind, are, on the contrary, frequently inflamed 
by the restraint, and sometimes (long after the provocation 
given, and when nobody is thinking about it) burst out ab¬ 
surdly and unexpectedly, and with tenfold fury and violence. 

Anger, however, as well as every other passion, may, up¬ 
on many occasions, be very properly restrained by prudential 
considerations. Some exertion of manhood and self-com¬ 
mand is even necessary for this sort of restraint; and the 
impartial spectator may sometimes view it with that sort of 
cold esteem due to that species of conduct which he considers 
as a mere matter of vulgar prudence; but never with that 
affectionate admiration with which he surveys the same pas¬ 
sions, when, by the sense of propriety, they are moderated 
and subdued to what he himself can readily enter into. In 
the former species of restraint, he may frequently discern 
some degree of propriety, and, if you will, even of virtue; 
but it is a propriety and virtue of a much inferior order to 
those which he always feels with transport and admiration in 
the latter. 

The virtues of prudence, justice, and beneficence, have 
no tendency to produce any but the most agreeable effects. 
Regard to those effects, as it originally recommends them to 
the actor, so does it afterwards to the impartial spectator. 
In our approbation of the character of the prudent man, we 
feel, with peculiar complacency, the security which he must 
enjoy while he walks under the safe-guard of that sedate and 
deliberate virtue. In our approbation of the character of 
the just man, we feel, with equal complacency, the security 
which all those connected with him, whether in neighbour¬ 
hood, society, or business, must derive from his scrupulous 
anxiety, never either to hurt or offend. In our approbation 
of the character of the beneficent man, we enter into the gra- 


360 


OP TIIE CHARACTER OF VIRTUE. 


Part VI. 


titude of all those who are within the sphere of his good of¬ 
fices, and conceive with them the highest sense of his merit. 
In our approbation of all those virtues, our sense of their a- 
greeable effects, of their utility, either to the person who ex¬ 
ercises them, or to some other persons, joins with our sense 
of their propriety, and constitutes always a considerable, fre¬ 
quently the greater, part of that approbation. 

But in our approbation of the virtues of self-command, 
complacency with their effects sometimes constitutes no part, 
and frequently but a small part of that approbation. Those 
effects may sometimes be agreeable, and sometimes disagree¬ 
able; and though our approbation is no doubt stronger in 
the former case, it is by no means altogether destroyed in 
the latter. The most heroic valour may be employed indiffer¬ 
ently in the cause either of justice or of injustice; and though 
it is no doubt much more loved and admired in the former 
case, it still appears a great and respectable quality even in 
the latter. In that, and in all the other virtues of self-com¬ 
mand, the splendid and dazzling quality seems always to be 
the greatness and steadiness of the exertion, and the strong 
sense of propriety which is necessary in order to make and 
to maintain that exertion. The effects are too often but to© 
little regarded. 


THE 


THEORY 

0 F 

MORALE SEMTIMEJVTS. 


PART VII. 


Of Systems of Moral Philosophy. 


Consisting of Four Sections. 


SECTION I. 

OF THE QUESTIONS WHICH OUGHT TO BE EXAMINED IN A THEORY 
OF MORAL SENTIMENTS. 

IF we examine the most celebrated and remarkable of the 
different theories which have been given concerning the na¬ 
ture and origin of our moral sentiments, we shall find that 
almost all of them coincide with some part or other of that 
which I have been endeavouring to give an account of; and 
that if every thing which has already been said be fully con¬ 
sidered, we shall be at no loss to explain what was the view 
or aspect of nature which led each particular author to form 
his particular system. From some one or other of those prin- 



362 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


ciples which I have been endeavouring to unfold, every sys¬ 
tem of morality that ever had any reputation in the world 
has, perhaps, ultimately been derived. As they are all of 
them, in this respect, founded upon natural principles, they 
are all of them in some measure in the right. But as many 
of them are derived from a partial and imperfect view of na¬ 
ture, there are many of them too in some respects in the 
wrong. 

In treating of the principles of morals there are two ques¬ 
tions to be considered. First, wherein does virtue consist? 
Or what is the tone of temper, and tenor of conduct, which 
constitutes the excellent and praise-worthy character, the 
character which is the natural object of esteem, honour and, 
approbation ? And, secondly, by what power or faculty in 
the mind is it, that this character, whatever it be, is recom¬ 
mended to us ? Or in other words, how, and by what means 
does it come to pass, that the mind prefers one tenour of 
conduct to another, denominates the one right and the other 
wrong; considers the one as the object of approbation, hon¬ 
our, and reward, and the other of blame, censure, and pun¬ 
ishment ? 

We examine the first question when we consider whether 
virtue consists in benevolence, as Dr Hutcheson imagines; 
or in acting suitably to the different relations we stand' in, 
as Dr Clark supposes; or in the wise and prudent pursuit of 
our own real and and solid happiness, as has been the opinion 
of others. 

We examine the second question, when we consider, whe¬ 
ther the virtuous character, whatever it consists in, be re¬ 
commended to us by self-love, which makes us perceive that 
this character, both in ourselves and others, tends most to 
promote our own private interest; or by reason, which points 
out to us the difference between one character and another, 
in the same manner as it does that between truth and false¬ 
hood; or by a peculiar power of perception, called a moral 
sense, which this virtuous character gratifies and pleases, 
as the contrary disgusts and displeases it; or last of all, by 


Sect. I. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


363 


some other principle in human nature, such as a modification 
of sympathy, or the like. 

I shall begin with considering the systems which have 
been formed concerning the first of these questions, and 
shall proceed afterwards to examine those concerning the 
second. 


364 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


SECTION II. 

OF THE DIFFERENT ACCOUNTS WHICH HAVE BEEN GIVEN OF 
THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 

INTRODUCTION. 


“THE different accounts which have been given of the na¬ 
ture of virtue, or of the temper of mind which constitutes 
the excellent and praise-worthy character, may be reduced 
to three different classes. According to some, the virtuous 
temper of mind does not consist in any one species of affec¬ 
tions, but in the proper government and direction of all our 
affections, which may be either virtuous or vicious according 
to the objects which they pursue, and the degree of vehe¬ 
mence with which they pursue them. According to these 
authors, therefore, virtue consists in propriety. 

According to others, virtue consists in the judicious pur¬ 
suit of our owm private interest and happiness, or in the pro¬ 
per government and direction of those selfish affections which 
aim solely at this end. In the opinion of these authors, there¬ 
fore, virtue consists in prudence. 

Another set of authors make virtue consist in those af¬ 
fections only which aim at the happiness of others, not in 
those which aim at our own. According to them, therefore, 
disinterested benevolence is the only motive which can stamp 
upon any action the character of virtue. 

The character of virtue, it is evident, must either be a- 
scribed indifferently to all our affections, when under proper 
government and direction; or it must be confined to some 
one class or division of them. The great division of our af¬ 
fections is into the selfish and the benevolent. If the char¬ 
acter of virtue, therefore, cannot be ascribed indifferently to 


Sect. II. 


.MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


365 


all our affections, when under proper government and direc¬ 
tion, it must be confined either to those which aim directly 
at our own private happiness, or to those which aim directly 
at that of others. If virtue, therefore, does not consist in 
propriety, it must consist either in prudence or in benevo¬ 
lence. Besides these three, it is scarce possible to imagine 
that any other account can be given of the nature of virtue. 
I shall endeavour to show hereafter, how all the other ac¬ 
counts, which are seemingly different from any of these, co¬ 
incide at bottom with some one or other of them. 


—«—- 


CHAPTER I. 

Of those Systems which make Virtue consist in Propriety. 

ACCORDING to Plato, to Aristotle, and to Zeno, virtue 
consists in the propriety of conduct, or in the suitableness 
of the affection from which we act to the object which ex¬ 
cites it. 

I. In the system of Plato* the soul is considered as some¬ 
thing like a little state or republic, composed of three dif¬ 
ferent faculties or orders. 

The first is the judging faculty, the faculty which deter¬ 
mines not only what are the proper means for attaining any 
end, but also what ends are fit to be pursued, and what de¬ 
gree of relative value we ought to put upon each. This fa¬ 
culty Plato called, as it is very properly called, reason, and 
considered it as what had a right to be the governing prin¬ 
ciple of the whole. Under this appellation, it is evident, he 
comprehended not only that faculty by which we judge of 
truth and falsehood, but that by which we judge of the pro¬ 
priety or impropriety of desires and affections. 

The different passions and appetites, the natural subjects 


* See Plato de Rep. lib. iv. 


m 


OF SYSTEMS OV 


Part VII. 


of this ruling principle, but which are so apt to rebel against 
their master, he reduced to two different classes or orders. 
The first consisted of those passions, which are founded in 
pride and resentment, or in what the schoolmen call the iras¬ 
cible part of the soul; ambition, animosity, the love of hon¬ 
our and the dread of shame, the desire of victory, superiority, 
and revenge; all those passions, in short, which are supposed 
either to rise from, or to denote what, by a metaphor in our 
language, we commonly call spirit or natural fire. The se¬ 
cond of those passions which are founded in the love of plea¬ 
sure, or in what the schoolmen call the concupiscible part 
of the soul. It comprehended all the appetites of the body, 
the love of ease and security, and of all sensual gratifications. 

It rarely happens that we break in upon that plan of con¬ 
duct, which the governing principle prescribes, and which 
in all our cool hours we had laid down to ourselves as what 
was most proper for us to pursue, but when prompted by one 
or other of those two different sets of passions; either by un¬ 
governable ambition and resentment, or by the importunate 
solicitations of present ease and pleasure. But though these 
two orders of passions are so apt to mislead us, they are still 
considered as necessary parts of human nature: the first having 
been given to defend us against injuries, to assert our rank 
and dignity in the world, to make us aim at what is noble 
and honourable, and to make us distinguish those who act 
in the same manner; the second, to provide for the support 
and necessities of the body. 

In the strength, acuteness, and perfection of the governing 
principle was placed the essential virtue of prudence, which, 
according to Plato, consisted in a just and clear discernment, 
founded upon general and scientific ideas, of the ends which 
were proper to be pursued, and of the means which were pro¬ 
per for attaining them. 

When the first set of passions, those of the irascible part 
of the soul, had that degree of strength and firmness which 
enabled them, under the direction of reason, to despise all 
dangers in the pursuit of what-was honourable and noble; 


Sect. II. 


moral philosophy. 


367 


it constituted the virtue of fortitude and magnanimity. This 
order of passions, according to this system, was of a more 
generous and noble nature than the other. They were con¬ 
sidered upon many occasions as the auxiliaries of reason, to 
check and restrain the inferior and brutal appetites. We are 
often angry at ourselves, it was observed, we often become the 
objects of our own resentment and indignation, when the 
love of pleasure prompts to do what we disapprove of, and 
the irascible part of our nature is in this manner called in t 0 
assist, the rational against the concupiscible. 

When all those three different parts of our nature were 
in perfect concord with one another, when neither the iras¬ 
cible nor concupiscible passions ever aimed at any gratifica¬ 
tion which reason did not approve of, and when reason never 
commanded any thing, but what these of their own accord 
were willing to perform: this happy composure, this perfect 
and complete harmony of soul, constituted that virtue which 
in their language is expressed by a word which we commonly 
translate temperance, but which might more properly be 
translated good temper, or sobriety and moderation of mind. 

Justice, the last and greatest of the four cardinal virtues, 
took place according to this system, when each of those three 
faculties of the mind confined itself to its pi oper office, with¬ 
out attempting to encroach upon that of any other; when 
reason directed and passion obeyed, and when each passion 
performed its proper duty, and exerted itself towards its pro¬ 
per object easily and without reluctance, and with that degree 
of force and energy, which was suitable to the value of what it 
pursued. In this consisted that complete virtue, that per¬ 
fect propriety of conduct, which Plato, after some of the an¬ 
cient Pythagoreans, denominated Justice. 

The word, it is to be observed, which expresses justice in 
the Greek language, has several different meanings; and as 
the correspondent word in all other languages, so far as I 
know, has the same, there must be some natural affinity a - 
mong those various significations. In one sense we are said to 
do justice to our neighbour when we abstain from doing him 


368 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


any positive harm, and do not directly hurt him, either in 
his person, or in his estate, or in his reputation. This is that 
justice which I have treated of above, the observance of which 
may be extorted by force, and the violation of which exposes 
to punishment. In another sense we are said not to do jus¬ 
tice to our neighbour unless we conceive for him all that love, 
respect, and esteem, which his character, his situation, and 
his connexion with ourselves, render suitable and proper for 
us to feel, and unless we act accordingly. It is in this sense 
that we are said to do injustice to a man of merit who is con¬ 
nected with us, though we abstain from hurting him in every 
respect, if we do not exert ourselves to serve him, and to 
place him in that situation in which the impartial spectator 
would be pleased to see him. The first sense of the word 
coincides with what Aristotle and the Schoolmen call commu¬ 
tative justice, and with what Grotius calls the justitia exple - 
trixy which consists in abstaining from what is another’s, and 
in doing voluntarily whatever we can with propriety be forced 
to do. The second sense of the word coincides with what 
some have called distributive justice*, and with the justitia 
attributrix of Grotius, which consists in proper beneficence, 
in the becoming use of what is our own, and in the applying 
it to those purposes either of charity or generosity, to which 
it is most suitable, in our situation, that it should be applied. 
In this sense justice comprehends all the social virtues. There 
is yet another sense in which the word justice is sometimes 
taken, still more extensive than either of the former, though 
very much a-kin to the last*, and which runs to, so far as I 
know, through all languages. It is in this last sense that we 
are said to be unjust, when we do not seem to value any par¬ 
ticular object with that degree of esteem, or to pursue it with 
that degree of ardour which to the impartial spectator it may 
appear to deserve, or to be naturally fitted for exciting. Thus 

* The distributive justice of Aristotle is somewhat different. It consists 
in the proper distribution of rewards from the public stock of a community. 
See Aristotle, Ethic. Nic. 1. v. c. 2. 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


369 


we are said to do injustice to a poem or a picture, when we 
do not admire them enough, and we are said to do them 
more than justice when we admire them too much. In the 
same manner we are said to do injustice to ourselves when 
we appear not to give sufficient attention to any particular 
object of self-interest. In this last sense, what is called jus¬ 
tice, means the same thing with exact and perfect propriety 
of conduct and behaviour, and comprehends in it, not only 
the offices of both commutative and distributive justice, but 
of every other virtue, of prudence, of fortitude, of temper¬ 
ance. It is in this last sense that Plato evidently understands 
what he calls justice, and which, therefore, according to him, 
comprehends in it the perfection of every sort of virtue. 

Such is the account given by Plato of the nature of virtue, 
or of that temper of mind which is the proper object of praise 
and approbation. It consists, according to him, in that state 
of mind in which every faculty confines itself within its pro¬ 
per sphere without encroaching upon that of any other, and 
performs its proper office with that precise degree of strength 
and vigour which belongs to it. His account, it is evident, 
coincides in every respect with what we have said above con¬ 
cerning the propriety of conduct. 

II. Virtue, according to Aristotle*, consists in the habit 
of mediocrity according to right reason. Every particular 
virtue, according to him, lies in a kind of middle between 
two opposite vices, of which the one offends from being too 
much, the other from being too little affected by a particular 
species of objects. Thus the virtue of fortitude or courage 
lies in the middle between the opposite vices of cowardice 
and of presumptuous rashness, of which the one offends from 
being too much, and the other from being too little affected 
by the objects of fear. Thus too, the virtue of frugality lies in 
a middle between avarice and profusion, of which the one con¬ 
sists in an excess, the other in a defect of the proper attention 
to the objects of self-interest. Magnanimity, in the same man- 


• See Aristotle, Ethic. Nic. 1. ii. c. 5. et seq. et 1. hi. c. 5, et seq. 

3 A 


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OF SYSTEMS OF 


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ner, lies in a middle between the excess of arrogance and the 
defect of pusillanimity, of which the one consists in too ex¬ 
travagant, the other in too weak a sentiment of our own worth 
and dignity. It is unnecessary to observe that this account of 
virtue corresponds too, pretty exactly with what has been said 
above concerning the propriety and impropriety of conduct. 

According to Aristotle*, indeed, virtue did not so much 
consist in those moderate and right affections, as in the habit 
of this moderation. In order to understand this, it is to be 
observed, that virtue may be considered either as the quality 
of an action, or as the quality of a person. Considered as 
the quality of an action, it consists, even according to Aristo¬ 
tle, in the reasonable moderation of the affection from which 
the action proceeds, whether this disposition be habitual to 
the person or not. Considered as the quality of a person, 
it consists, in the habit of this reasonable moderation, in its 
having become the customary and usual disposition of the 
mind. Thus the action which proceeds from an occasional 
fit of generosity is undoubtly a generous action, but the man 
who performs it, is not necessarily a generous person, because 
it may be the single action of the kind which he ever per¬ 
formed. The motive and disposition of heart, from which this 
action was performed, may have been quite just and proper: 
but as this happy mood seems to have been the effect rather 
of accidental humour than of any thing steady or permanent 
in the character, it can reflect no great honour on the per¬ 
former. When we denominate a character generous or char- 
. itable, or virtuous in any respect, we mean to signify that the 
disposition expressed by each of those appellations is the 
usual and customary disposition of the person. But single 
•actions of any kind, how proper and suitable soever, are of 
little consequence to show that this is the case. If a single 
action was sufficient to stamp the character of any virtue up¬ 
on the person who performed it, the most worthless of man¬ 
kind might lay claim to all the virtues; since there is no man 


* See Aristotle, Ethic. Nic. lib. ii. ch. 1, 2, S 3 and 4, 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


371 


who has not, upon some occasions, acted with prudence, jus¬ 
tice, temperance, and fortitude. But though single actions, 
how laudable soever, reflect very little praise upon the per¬ 
son who performs them, a single vicious action performed by 
one whose conduct is usually very regular, greatly diminishes 
and sometimes destroys altogether our opinion of his virtue. 
A single action of this kind sufficiently shows that his habits 
are not perfect, and that he is less to be depended upon, than, 
from the usual train of his behaviour, we might have been 
apt to imagine. 

Aristotle too,* when he made virtue to consist in prac¬ 
tical habits, had it probably in his view to oppose the doc¬ 
trine of Plato, who seems to have been of opinion that just 
sentiments and reasonable judgments concerning what was 
fit to be done or to be avoided, were alone sufficient to con¬ 
stitute the most perfect virtue. Virtue, according to Plato, 
might be considered as a species of science, and no man, he 
thought, could see clearly and demonstratively what was 
right and what was wrong, and not to act accordingly. Passion 
might make us act contrary to doubtful and uncertain opinions, 
not to plain and evident judgments. Aristotle, on the con¬ 
trary, was of opinion, that no conviction of the understanding 
was capable of getting the better of inveterate habits, and 
that good morals arose not from knowledge but from action. 

III. According to Zenof, the founder of the Stoical doc¬ 
trine, every animal was by nature recommended to its own 
care, and was endowed with the principle of self-love, that 
it might endeavour to preserve, not only its existence, but 
all the different parts of its nature, in the best and most per¬ 
fect state of which they were capable. 

The self-love of man embraced, if I may say so, his body 
and all its different members, his mind and all its different 
faculties and powers, and desired the preservation and main¬ 
s’ See Aristotle,' Mag. Mor. lib. i. ch. 1. 
f See Cicero de finibus, lib. iii,; also Diogenes Laertius in Zenone, lib. 
vii. segment 84. 


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OF SYSTEMS OF 


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tenance of them all in their best and most perfect condition. 
Whatever tended to support this state of existence was, there¬ 
fore, by nature pointed out to him as fit to be chosen; and 
whatever tended to destroy it, as fit to be rejected. Thus 
health, strength, agility and ease of body as well as the ex¬ 
ternal conveniences which could promote these; wealth, pow¬ 
er, honours, the respect and esteem of those we live with; 
were naturally pointed out to us as things eligible, and of 
which the possession was preferable to the want. On the 
other hand, sickness, infirmity, unwieldiness, pain of body as 
well as of all the external inconveniences which tend to oc¬ 
casion or bring on any of them; poverty, the want of autho¬ 
rity, the contempt or hatred of those we live with; were in 
the same manner, pointed out to us as things to be shunned 
and avoided. In each of those two opposite classes of objects, 
there were some which appeared to be more the objects either 
of choice or rejection, than others in the same class. Thus, 
in the first class, health appeared evidently preferable to 
strength, and strength to agility; reputation to power, and 
power to riches. And thus too, in the second class, sickness 
was more to be avoided than unwieldiness of body, ignominy 
than poverty, and poverty than the loss of power. Virtue and 
the propriety of conduct consisted in choosing and rejecting all 
different objects and circumstances according as they were by 
nature rendered more or less the objects of choice or rejec¬ 
tion; in selecting always from among the several objects of 
choice presented to us, that which was most to be chosen, 
when we could not obtain them all; and in selecting too, out 
of the several objects of rejection offered to us, that which 
was least to be avoided, when it was not in our power to a- 
void them all. By choosing and rejecting with this just and 
accurate discernment, by thus bestowing upon every object 
the precise degree of attention it deserved, according to the 
place which it held in this natural scale of things, we main¬ 
tained, according to the Stoics, that perfect rectitude of con¬ 
duct which constituted the essence of virtue. This was what 
they called to live consistently, to live according to nature. 


Sect. II. MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 373 

and to obey those laws and directions which nature, or the 
Author of nature, had prescribed for our conduct. 

So far the Stoical idea of propriety and virtue is not very 
different from that of Aristotle and the ancient Peripatetics. 

Among those primary objects which nature had recom¬ 
mended to us as eligible, was the prosperity of our family, 
of our relations, of our friends, of our country, of mankind, 
and of the universe in general. Nature, too, had taught us, 
that as the prosperity of two was preferable to that of one, 
that of many, or of all, must be infinitely more so. That 
we ourselves were but one, and that consequently wherever 
our prosperity was inconsistent with that, either of the whole, 
or of any considerable part of the whole, it ought, even in 
our own choice, to yield to what was so vastly preferable. 
As all the events in this world were conducted by the pro¬ 
vidence of a wise, powerful, and good God, we might be as¬ 
sured that whatever happened tended to the prosperity and 
perfection of the whole. If we ourselves, therefore, were in 
poverty, in sickness, or in any other calamity, we ought, first 
of all, to use our utmost endeavours, so far as justice and our 
duty to others would allow, to rescue ourselves from this dis¬ 
agreeable circumstance. But if after all we could do, we 
found this impossible, we ought to rest satisfied that the or¬ 
der and perfection of the universe required that we should 
in the mean time continue in this situation. And as the pro¬ 
sperity of the whole should, even to us, appear preferable to 
so insignificant a part as ourselves, our situation, whatever it 
was, ought from that moment to become the object of our 
liking, if we would maintain that complete propriety and rec¬ 
titude of sentiment and conduct in which consisted the per¬ 
fection of our nature. If, indeed, any opportunity of extri¬ 
cating ourselves should offer, it became our duty to embrace it. 
The order of the universe, it was evident, no longer required 
our continuance in this situation,] and the great Director of 
the world plainly called upon us to leave it, by so clearly point¬ 
ing out the road which we were to follow. It was the same 
case with the adversity of our relations, our friends, our coun- 


37 4 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


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try. If, without violating any more sacred obligation, it was 
in our power to prevent or put an end to their calamity, it 
undoubtedly was our duty to do so. The propriety of action, 
the rule which Jupiter had given us for the direction of our 
conduct, evidently required this of us. But if it was alto¬ 
gether out of our power to do either, we ought then to con¬ 
sider this event as the most fortunate which could possibly 
have happened; because we might be assured that it tended 
most to the prosperity and order of the whole, which was 
what we ourselves, if we were wise and equitable, ought most 
of all to desire. It was our own final interest considered as 
a part of that whole, of which the prosperity ought to be, 
not only the principal, but the sole object of our desire. 

“ In what sense,” says Epictetus, « are some things said 
« to be according to our nature, and others contrary to it ? 
« It is in that sense in which we consider ourselves as sepa- 
“ rated and detached from all other things. For thus it may 
« be said to be according to the nature of the foot to be al- 
« ways clean. But if you consider it as a foot, and not as. 
< c something detached from the rest of the body, it must be- 
« hove it sometimes to trample in the dirt, and sometimes 
« to tread upon thorns, and sometimes too, to be cut off for 
« the sake of the whole body; and if it refuses this, it is no 
« longer a foot. Thus too, ought we to conceive with re- 
« gard to ourselves. What are you? A man. If you consi- 
“ der yourself as something separated and detached, it is a- 
« greeable to your nature to live to old age, to be rich, to be 
“ in health. But if you consider yourself as a man, and as a 
" part of a whole, upon account of that whole, it will behove 
“ you sometimes to be in sickness, sometimes to be exposed 
<( to the inconveniency of a sea voyage, sometimes to be in 
“ want; and at last, perhaps, to die before your time. Why 
“ then do you complain? Do not you know that by doing 
“ so, as the foot ceases to be a foot, so you cease to be a 
“ man?” 

A WISE man never complains of the destiny of Providence, 
nor thinks the universe in confusion when he is out of order* 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


375 


He does not look upon himself as a whole, separated and de¬ 
tached from every other part of nature, to be taken care of by 
itself and for itself. He regards himself in the light in which 
he imagines the great genius of human nature, and of the 
world, regards him. He enters if I may say so, into the sen¬ 
timents of that divine Being, and considers himself as an 
atom, a particle, of an immense and infinite system, which 
must and ought to be disposed of, according to the conveni- 
ency of the whole. -Assured of the wisdom which directs all 
the events of human life, whatever lot befals him, he accepts 
it with joy, satisfied that, if he had known all the connections 
and dependencies of the different parts of the universe, it is 
the very lot which he himself would have wished for. If it 
is life, he is contented to live;. and if it is death, as nature 
must have no further occasion for his presence here, he will¬ 
ingly goes where he is appointed. I accept said a cynical 
philosopher, whose doctrines were in this respect the same as 
those of the Stoics, I accept with equal joy and satisfaction, 
whatever fortune can befal me. Riches or poverty, pleasure 
or pain, health or sickness, all is alike: nor would I desire 
that the gods should in any respect change my destination. 
If I was to ask of them any thing beyond what their bounty 
has already bestowed, it should be that they would inform me 
before-hand what it was their pleasure should be done with 
me, that I might of my own accord place myself in this situa¬ 
tion, and demonstrate the cheerfulness with which I embraced 
their allotment. If I am going to sail, says Epictetus, I choose 
the best ship and the best pilot, and I wait for the fairest 
weather that my circumstances and duty will allow. Pru¬ 
dence and propriety, the principles which the gods have giv¬ 
en me for the direction of my conduct, require this of me; 
but they require no more: and if, notwithstanding, a storm 
arises, which neither the strength of the vessel nor the skill 
of the pilot are likely to withstand, I give myself no trouble 
about the consequence. All that I had to do is done already. 
The directors of my conduct never command me to be mis¬ 
erable, to be anxious, desponding, or afraid. Whether we 


376 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


are to be drowned, or to come to a harbour, is the business 
of Jupiter, not mine. I leave it entirely to his determina¬ 
tion, nor ever break my rest with considering which way he 
is likely to decide it, but receive whatever comes with equal 
indifference and security. 

From this perfect confidence in that benevolent wisdom 
which governs the universe, and from this entire resignation 
to whatever order that wisdom might think proper to esta¬ 
blish, it necessarily followed, that, to the Stocial wise man, 
all the events of human life must be in a great measure in¬ 
different. His happiness consisted altogether, first, in the 
contemplation of the happiness and perfection of the great 
system of the universe, of the good government of the great 
republic of gods and men, of all rational and sensible beings; 
and, secondly, in discharging his duty, in acting properly 
in the affairs of this great republic whatever little part that 
wisdom had assigned to him. The propriety or impropriety 
of his endeavours might be of great consequence to him. 
Their success or disappointment could be of none at all; could 
excite no passionate joy or sorrow, no passionate desire or a- 
version. If he preferred some events to others, if some situa¬ 
tions were the objects of his choice and others of his rejec¬ 
tion, it was not because he regarded the one as in themselves 
in any respect better than the other, or thought that his own 
happiness would be more complete in what is called the for¬ 
tunate than in what is regarded as the distressful situation; 
but because the propriety of action, the rule which the gods 
had given him for the direction of his conduct, required him 
to choose and reject in this manner. All his affections were 
absorbed and swallowed up in two great affections; in that 
for the discharge of his own duty, and in that for the great¬ 
est possible happiness of all rational and sensible beings. 
For the gratification of this latter affection, he rested with 
the most perfect security upon the wisdom and power of the 
great Superintendant of the universe. His sole anxiety was 
about the gratification of the former; not about the event, 
but about the propriety of his own endeavours. Whatever 


Sect. II. 


OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


377 


the event might be, he trusted to a superior power and wis¬ 
dom for turning it to promote that great end which he him¬ 
self was most desirous of promoting. 

This propriety of choosing and rejecting, though original¬ 
ly pointed out to us, and as it were recommended and intro¬ 
duced to our acquaintance by the things, and for the sake of 
the things chosen and rejected; yet when we had once be¬ 
come thoroughly acquainted with it, the order, the grace, the 
beauty which we discerned in this conduct, the happiness 
which we felt resulted from it, necessarily appeared to us 
of much greater value than the actual obtaining of all the dif¬ 
ferent objects of choice, or the actual avoiding of all those of 
rejection. From the observation of this propriety arose the 
happiness and the glory; from the neglect of it, the misery 
and the disgrace of human nature. 

But to a wise man, to one whose passions were brought 
under perfect subjection to the ruling principles of his na¬ 
ture, the exact observation of this propriety was equally easy 
upon all occasions. Was he in prosperity, he returned 
thanks to Jupiter for having joined him with circumstances 
which were easily mastered, and in which there was little 
temptation to do wrong. Was he in adversity, he equally 
returned thanks to the director of this spectacle of human 
life, for having opposed to him a vigorous athlete, over 
whom, though the contest was likely to be more violent, 
the victory was more glorious, and equally certain. Can 
there be any shame in that distress which is brought up¬ 
on us without any fault of our own, and in which we be¬ 
have with perfect propriety? There can, therefore, be no 
evil, but, on the contrary, the greatest good and advantage. 
A brave man exults in those dangers in which, from no rash¬ 
ness of his own, his fortune has involved him. They afford 
an opportunity of exercising that heroic intrepidity, whose 
exertion gives the exalted delight which flows from the con¬ 
sciousness of superior propriety and deserved admiration. 
One who is master of all his exercises has no aversion to 
measure his strength and activity with the strongest. And, 

3 B 


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OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


in the same manner, one who is master of all his passions, 
does not dread any circumstance in which the Superintend- 
ant of the universe may think proper to place him. The 
bounty of that divine Being has provided him with virtues 
which render him superior to every situation. If it is plea¬ 
sure, he has temperance to refrain from it; if it is pain, he 
has constancy to bear it; if it is danger or death, he has 
magnanimity and fortitude to despise it. The events of hu¬ 
man life can never find him unprepared, or at a loss how to 
maintain that propriety of sentiment and conduct which, in his 
own apprehension, constitues at once his glory and his hap¬ 
piness. 

Human life the Stoics appear to have considered as a 
game of great skill; in which, however, there was a mixture 
of chance, or of what is vulgarly understood to be chance. 
In such games the stake is commonly a trifle, and the whole 
pleasure of the game arises from playing well, from playing 
fairly, and playing skilfully. If, notwithstanding all his skill, 
however, the good player should, by the influence of chance, 
happen to lose, the loss ought to be a matter, rather of merri¬ 
ment, than of serious sorrow. He has made no false stroke; 
he has done nothing which he ought to be ashamed of; he 
has enjoyed completely the whole pleasure of the game. If, 
on the contrary, the bad player, notwithstanding all his blun¬ 
ders, should, in the same manner, happen to win, his success 
can give him but little satisfaction. He is mortified by the 
remembrance of all the faults which he committed. Even 
during the play he can enjoy no part of the pleasure which 
it is capable of affording. From ignorance of the rules of 
the game, fear and doubt, and hesitation are the disagreeable 
sentiments that precede almost every stroke which he plays; 
and when he has played it, the mortification of finding it a 
gross blunder, commonly completes the unpleasing circle of 
his sensations. Human life, with all the advantages which 
can possibly attend it, ought, according to the Stoics, to be 
regarded but as a mere two-penny stake; a matter by far too 
insignificant to merit any anxious concern. Our only anxi- 


OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


Sect. II, 


379 


ous concern ought to be, not about the stake, but about the 
proper method of playing. If we placed our happiness in 
winning the stake, we placed it in what depended upon caus¬ 
es beyond our power, and out of our direction. We necessa¬ 
rily exposed ourselves to perpetual fear and uneasiness, and 
frequently to grievous and mortifying disappointments. If 
we placed it in playing well, in playing fairly, in playing 
wisely and skilfully; in the propriety of our own conduct, in 
short, we placed it in what, by proper discipline, education, 
and attention, might be altogether in our own power, and 
under our own direction. Our happiness was perfectly se¬ 
cure, and beyond the reach of fortune. The event of our 
actions, if it was out of our power, was equally out of our 
concern, and we could never feel either fear or anxiety a- 
bout it; nor ever suffer any grievous, or even any serious 
disappointment. 

Human life itself, as well as every different advantage or 
disadvantage which can attend it, might, they said, accord¬ 
ing to different circumstances, be the proper object either of 
our choice or of our rejection. If, in our actual situation, 
there were more circumstances agreeable to nature than con¬ 
trary to it*, more circumstances which were the objects of 
choice than of rejection; life, in this case, was, upon the 
whole, the proper object of choice, and the propriety of con¬ 
duct required that we should remain in it. If, on the other 
hand, there were, in our actual situation, without any pro¬ 
bable hope of amendment, more circumstances contrary to 
nature than agreeable to it; more circumstances which were 
the objects of rejection than of choice; life itself, in this case, 
became, to a wise man, the object of rejection, and he was 
not only at liberty to remove out of it, but the propriety of 
conduct, the rule which the gods had given him for the di¬ 
rection of his conduct, required him to do so. I am order¬ 
ed, says Epictetus, not to dwell at Nicopolis. I do not dwell 
there. I am ordered not to dwell at Athens. I do not 
dwell at Athens. I am ordered not to dwell in Rome. I do 
not dwell in Rome. I am ordered to dwell in the little and 

3 B 2 


380 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


rocky island of Gyarae. I go and dwell there. But the 
house smokes in Gyane. If the smoke is moderate I will bear 
it, and stay there. If it is excessive, I will go to a house from 
whence no tyrant can remove me. I keep in mind always 
that the door is open, that I can walk out when I please, and 
retire to that hospitable house which is at all times open to 
all the world; for beyond my undermost garment, beyond 
my body, no man living has any power over me. If your 
situation is upon the whole disagreeable; if your house 
smokes too much for you, said the Stoics, walk forth by all 
means. But walk forth without repining; without mur¬ 
muring or complaining. Walk forth calm, contented, re¬ 
joicing, returning thanks to the gods, who, from their infi¬ 
nite bounty, have opened the safe and quiet harbour of death, 
at all times ready to receive us from the stormy ocean of hu¬ 
man life; who have prepared this sacred, this inviolable, this 
great asylum, always open, always accessible; altogether be¬ 
yond the reach of human rage and injustice; and large e- 
nough to contain both all those who wish, and all those who 
do not wish to retire to it: an asylum which takes away from 
every man every pretence of complaining, or even of fancy¬ 
ing that there can be any evil in human life, except such as 
he may suffer from his own folly and weakness. 

The Stoics, in the few fragments of their philosophy which 
have come down to us, sometimes talk of leaving life with 
a gaiety, and even with a levity, which, were we to consider 
those passages by themselves, might induce us to believe that 
they imagined we could with propriety leave it whenever we 
had a mind, wantonly and capriciously, upon the slightest dis¬ 
gust or uneasiness. “ When you sup with such a person,” says 
Epictetus, “ you complain of the long stories which he tells 
“ you about his Mysian wars. « Now my friends, says he, 
“ having told you how I took possession of an eminence at 
“ such a place, I will tell you how I was besieged in such 
“ another place.’ But if you have a mind not to be trou- 
“ bled with his long stories, do not accept of his supper. If 
“ you accept of his supper, you have not the least pretence 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


dSi 


“ to complain of his long stories. It is the same case with 
“ what you call the evils of human life. Never complain of 
“ that of which it is at all times in your power to rid yourself.” 
Notwithstanding this gaiety and even levity of expression, 
however, the alternative of leaving life, or of remaining in 
it, was, according to the Stoics, a matter of the most serious 
and important deliberation. We ought never to leave it till 
we were distinctly called upon to do so by that superintending 
Power which had originally placed us in it. But we were to 
consider ourselves as called upon to do so, not merely at the 
appointed and unavoidable term of human life. Whenever 
the providence of that superintending Power had rendered 
our condition in life upon the whole the proper object ra¬ 
ther of rejection than of choice; the great rule which he 
had given us for the direction of our conduct, then required 
us to leave it. We might then be said to hear the awful 
and benevolent voice of that divine Being distinctly calling 
upon us to do so. 

It was upon this account that, according to the Stoics, 
it might be the duty of a wise man to remove out of life 
though he was perfectly happy; while, on the contrary, it 
might be the duty of a weak man to remain in it; though 
he was necessarily miserable. If, in the situation of the 
wise man, there were more circumstances which were the 
natural objects of rejection than of choice, the whole situa¬ 
tion became the object of rejection, and the rule which the 
gods had given him for the direction of his conduct, re¬ 
quired that he should remove out of it as speedily as par¬ 
ticular circumstances might render convenient. He was, 
however, perfectly happy even during the time that he might 
think proper to remain in it. He had placed his happiness, 
not in obtaining the objects of his choice, or in avoiding 
those of his rejection: but in always choosing and rejecting 
with exact propriety; not in the success, <but in the fitness 
of his endeavours and exertions. If in the situation of the 
weak man, on the contrary, there were more circumstances 
which were the natural objects of choice than of rejection; 


:J82 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


his whole situation became the proper object of choice, and 
it was his duty to remain in it. He was unhappy, however, 
from not knowing how to use those circumstances. Let his 
cards be ever so good, • he did not know how to play them, 
and could enjoy no sort of real satisfaction, either in the pro¬ 
gress, or in the event of the game in what ever manner it 
might happen to turn out *. 

The propriety, upon some occasions, of voluntary death, 
though it was, perhaps, more insisted upon by the Stoics, 
than by any other sect of ancient philosophers, was, how¬ 
ever, a doctrine common to them all, even to'the peaceable- 
and indolent Epicureans. During the age in which flourish¬ 
ed the founders of all the principal sects of ancient philoso¬ 
phy, during the Peloponnesian war, and for many years af¬ 
ter its conclusion, all the different republics of Greece were, 
at home, almost always distracted by the most furious fac¬ 
tions; and abroad, involved in the most sanguinary wars, 
in which each sought, not merely superiority or dominion, 
but either completely to extirpate all its enemies, or, what 
was not less cruel, to reduce them to the vilest of all states, 
that of domestic slavery, and to sell them, man, woman, and 
child, like so many herds of cattle, to the highest bidder in 
the market. The smallness of the greater part of those 
states, too, rendered it, to each of them, no very improba¬ 
ble event, that it might itself fall into that very calamity 
which it had so frequently, either, perhaps, actually inflicted, 
or at least attempted to inflict upon some of its neighbours. 
In this disorderly state of things, the most perfect innocence, 
joined to both the highest rank and the greatest public ser¬ 
vices, could give no security to any man that, even at home 
and among his own relations and fellow-citizens, he was not 
‘tit some time or another, from the prevalence of some hostile 
and furious faction, to be condemned to the most cruel and 
ignominious punishment. If he was taken prisoner in war, 
or if the city of which he was a member was conquered, he> 


* See Cicero de finibus, lib. 3. c 13. Olivet’s edition. 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


383 


was exposed, if possible, to still greater injuries and insults. 
But every man naturally, or rather necessarily, familiarizes 
his imagination with the distresses to which he foresees that 
his situation may frequently expose him. It is impossible that 
a sailor should not frequently think of storms and shipwrecks, 
and foundering at sea, and of how he himself is likely both 
to feel and to act upon such occasions. It was impossible, in 
the same manner, that a Grecian patriot or hero should not 
familiarize his imagination with all the different calamities to 
which he was sensible his situation must frequently, or rather 
constantly expose him. As an American savage prepares his 
death-song, and considers how he should act when he has 
fallen into the hands of his enemies, and is by them put to 
death in the most lingering tortures, and amidst the insults 
and derision of all the spectators ; so a Grecian patriot or hero 
could not avoid frequently employing his thoughts in consi¬ 
dering what he ought both to suffer and to do in banishment, 
in captivity, when reduced to slavery, when put to the tor¬ 
ture, when brought to the scaffold. But the philosophers 
of all the different sects very justly represented virtue; that is, 
wise, just, firm, and. temperate conduct; not only as the most 
probable, but as the certain and infallible road to happiness 
even in this life. This conduct, however, could not always 
exempt, and might eVen sometimes expose the person who 
followed it to all the calamities which were incident to that 
unsettled situation of public affairs. They endeavoured, 
therefore, to show that happiness was either altogether, or at 
least in a great measure, independent of fortune; the Stoics, 
that it was so altogether; the Academic and Peripatetic phil¬ 
osophers, that it was so in a great measure. Wise, prudent, 
and good conduct was, in the first place, the conduct most 
likely to ensure success in every species of undertaking; and 
secondly, though it should fail of success, yet the mind was 
not left without consolation. The virtuous man might still 
enjoy the complete approbation of his own breast; and might 
still feel that, how untoward soever things might be without, 
all was calm, and peace, and concord within. He might ge- 


384 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


nerally comfort himself, too, with the assurance that he pos¬ 
sessed the love and esteem of every intelligent and impartial 
spectator, who could not fail both to admire his conduct, and 
to regret his misfortune. 

Those philosophers endeavoured, at the same time, to 
show, that the greatest misfortunes to which human life was 
liable, might be supported more easily than was commonly 
imagined. They endeavoured to point out the comforts 
which a man might still enjoy when reduced to poverty, when 
driven into banishment, when exposed to the injustice of 
popular clamour, when labouring under blindness, under 
deafness, in the extremity of old age, upon the approach of 
death. They pointed out, too, the considerations which 
might contribute to support his constancy under the agonies 
of pain and even of torture, in sickness, in sorrow for the loss 
of children, for the death of friends and relations, &c. The 
few fragments which have come down to us of what the an¬ 
cient philosophers had written upon these subjects, form, per¬ 
haps, one of the most instructive, as well as one of the most 
interesting remains of antiquity. The spirit and manhood of 
their doctrines make a wonderful contrast with the despond¬ 
ing, plaintive, and whining tone of some modern systems. 

But while those ancient philosophers endeavoured in this 
manner to suggest every consideration which could, as Mil- 
ton says, arm the obdurate breast with stubborn patience, as 
with triple steel; they, at the same time, laboured above all 
to convince their followers that there neither was nor could 
be any evil in death; and that, if their situation became at 
any time too hard for their constancy to support, the remedy 
was at hand, the door was open, and they might, without 
fear, walk out when they pleased. If there was no world be¬ 
yond the present, death, they said, could be no evil; and if 
there was another world, the gods must likewise be in that 
other, and a just man could fear no evil while under their pro¬ 
tection. Those philosophers in short, prepared a death-song, 
if I may say so, which the Grecian patriots and heroes might 
make use of upon the proper occasions; and of all the diffe- 


Sect. II. 


MOItAL PHILOSOPHY. 


385 


rent sects, the Stoics, I think it must be acknowledged, had 
prepared by far the most animated and spirited song. 

Suicide, however, never seems to have been very common 
among the Greeks. Excepting Cleomenes, I cannot at pre¬ 
sent recollect any very illustrious, either patriot or hero of 
Greece, who died by his own hand. The death of Aristo- 
menes is as much beyond the period of true history as that 
of Ajax. The common story of the death of Themistocles, 
though within that period, bears upon its face all the marks 
of a most romantic fable. Of all the Greek heroes whose 
lives have been written by Plutarch, Cleomenes appears to 
have been the only one who perished in this manner. The- 
ramines, Socrates, and Phocion, who certainly did not want 
courage, suffered themselves to be sent to prison, and submit¬ 
ted patiently to that death to which the injustice of their fel¬ 
low-citizens had condemned them. The brave Eumenes al¬ 
lowed himself to be delivered up, by his own mutinous sol¬ 
diers, to his enemy Antigonus, and was starved to death, with¬ 
out attempting any violence. The gallant Philopoemen suf¬ 
fered himself to be taken prisoner by the Messenians, was 
thrown into a dungeon, and was supposed to have been pri¬ 
vately poisoned. Several of the philosophers, indeed, are 
said to have died in this manner; but their lives have been 
so very foolishly written, that very little credit is due to the 
greater part of the tales which are told of them. Three dif¬ 
ferent accounts have been given of the death of Zeno the 
Stoic. One is, that after enjoying, for ninety-eight years, 
the most perfect state of health, he happened, in going out 
of his school, to fall; and though he suffered no other dam¬ 
age than that of breaking or dislocating one of his fingers, 
he struck the ground with his hand, and in the words of the 
Niobe of Euripides, said, I come , *wliy dost thou call me? and 
immediately went home and hanged himself. At that great 
age, one should think, he might have had a little more pa¬ 
tience. Another account is, that at the same age, and in con¬ 
sequence of a like accident, he starved himself to death. The 
third account is, that, at seventy-two years of age, he died in 

3 c 


386 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


the natural way; by far the most probable account of the 
three, and supported too by the authority of a cotemporary, 
who must have had every opportunity of being well informed; 
of Persseus, originally the slave, and afterwards the friend 
and disciple of Zeno. The first account is given by Apollo- 
ninus of Tyre, who flourished about the time of Augustus 
Caesar, between two and three hundred years after the death 
of Zeno. I know not who is the author of the second ac¬ 
count. Apollonius, who was himself a Stoic, had probably 
thought it would do honour to the founder of a sect which 
talked so much about voluntary death, to die in this manner 
by his own hand. Men of letters, though, after their death, 
they are frequently more talked of than the greatest princes 
or statesmen of their times, are generally, during their life, 
so obscure and insignificant, that their adventures are seldom 
recorded by cotemporary historians. Those of after ages, in 
order to satisfy the public curiosity, and having no authentic 
documents either to support or to contradict their narratives, 
seem frequently to have fashioned them according to their 
own fancy; and almost always with a great mixture of the 
marvellous. In this particular case the marvellous though 
supported by no authority, seems to have prevailed over the 
probable, though supported by the best. Diogenes Laertius 
plainly gives the preference to the story of Apollonius. Lu¬ 
cian and Lactantius appear both to have given credit to that 
of the great age and of the violent death. 

This fashion of voluntary death appears to have been much 
more prevalent among the proud Romans, than it ever was 
among the lively, ingenious, and accommodating Greeks. 
Even among the Romans, the fashion seems not to have been 
established in the early, and, what are called, the virtuous ages 
of the republic. The common story of the death of Regulus, 
though probably a fable, could never have been invented, 
had it been supposed that any dishonour could fall upon that 
hero, from patiently submitting to the-tortures which the 
Carthaginians are said to have inflicted upon him. In the 
later ages of the republic some dishonour, I apprehend, would 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


387 


have attended this submission. In the different civil wars 
which preceeded the fall of the commonwealth, many of the 
eminent men of all the contending parties chose rather to 
perish by their own hands, than to fall into those of their 
enemies. The death of Cato, celebrated by Cicero, and cen¬ 
sured by Caesar, and become the subject of a very serious 
controversy between, perhaps, the two most illustrious advo¬ 
cates that the world had ever beheld, stamped a character of 
splendour upon this method of dying which it seems to have 
retained for several ages after. The eloquence of Cicero 
was superior to that of Caesar. The admiring prevailed great¬ 
ly over the censuring party, and the lovers of liberty, for 
many ages afterwards, looked up to Cato as to the most ven¬ 
erable martyr of the republican party. The head of a party, 
the Cardinal de Retz observes, may do what he pleases; as 
long as he retains the confidence of his own friends, he can 
never do wrong; a maxim of which his Eminence had himself, 
upon several occasions, an opportunity of experiencing the 
truth. Cato, it seems, joined to his other virtues that of an 
excellent bottle companion. His enemies accused him of 
drunkenness, but, says Seneca, whoever objected this vice to 
Cato, will find it much easier to prove that drunkenness is a 
virtue, than that Cato could be addicted to any vice. 

Under the Emperors this method of dying seems to have 
been, for a long time, perfectly fashionable. In the epistles 
of Pliny we find an account of several persons who chose to 
die in this manner, rather from vanity and ostentation, it 
would seem, than from what would appear, even to a sober 
and judicious Stoic, any proper or necessary reason. Even 
the ladies, who are seldom behind in following the fashion, 
seem frequently to have chosen, most unnecessarily, to die in 
this manner; and like the ladies in Bengal, to accompany, 
upon some occasions, their husbands to the tomb. The pre¬ 
valence of this fashion certainly occasioned many deaths which 
would not otherwise have happened. All the havock, how¬ 
ever, wh ch th s, perhaps the highest exertion of human van- 

3 c 2 


388 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Fart VII. 


ity and impertinence, could occasion, would, probably, at no 
time, be very great. 

The principle of suicide, the principle which would teach 
us, upon some occasions, to consider that violent action as 
an object of applause and approbation, seems to be altogether 
a refinement of philosophy. Nature in her sound and health¬ 
ful state, seems never to prompt us to suicide. There is in¬ 
deed, a species of melancholy (a disease to which human na¬ 
ture, among its other calamities, is unhappily subject) which 
seems to be accompanied with, what one may call, an irresist¬ 
ible appetite for self-destruction. In circumstances often of 
the highest external prosperity, and sometimes too, in spite 
even of the most serious and deeply impressed sentiments of 
religion, this disease has frequently been known to drive its 
wretched victims to this fatal extremity. The unfortunate 
persons who perish in this miserable manner are the pro¬ 
per objects, not of censure, but of commiseration. To at¬ 
tempt to punish them, when they are beyond the reach of all 
human punishment, is not more absurd than it is unjust. 
That punishment can fall only on their surviving friends and 
relations, who are always perfectly innocent, and to whom 
the loss of their friend, in this disgraceful manner, must al¬ 
ways be alone a very heavy calamity. Nature, in her sound 
and healthful state, prompts us to avoid distress upon all oc¬ 
casions; upon many occasions to defend ourselves against it, 
though at the hazard, or even at the certainty of perishing 
in that defence. But, when we have neither been able to de¬ 
fend ourselves from it, nor have plerished in that defence, no 
natural principle, no regard to the approbation of the suppos¬ 
ed impartial spectator, to the judgment of the man within the 
breast, seems to call upon us to escape from it by destroying 
ourselves. It is only the consciousness of our own weakness, 
of our own incapacity to support the calamity with proper 
manhood and firmness, which can drive us to this resolution. 
I do not remember to have either read or heard of any Ameri¬ 
can savage, who, upon being taken prisoner by some hostile 
tribe, put himself to death, in order to avoid being afterwards 


Sect. ir. 


JIOltAL PHILOSOPHY. 


389 


put to death in torture, and amidst the insults and mockery 
of his enemies. He places his glory in supporting those tor¬ 
ments with manhood, and in retorting those insults with ten¬ 
fold contempt and derision. 

This contempt of life and death, however, and, at the same 
time, the mose entire submission to the order of Providence; 
the most complete contentment with every event which the 
current of human affairs could possibly cast up, may be con¬ 
sidered as the two fundamental doctrines upon which rested 
the whole fabric of Stoical morality. The independent and 
spirited, but often harsh Epictetus, may be considered as the 
great apostle of the first of those doctrines: the mild, the 
humane, the benevolent Antoninus, of the second. 

The emancipated slave of Epaphroditus, who, in his 
youth, had been subjected to the insolence of a brutal master, 
who, in his riper years, was, by the jealousy and caprice of 
Domitian, banished from Rome and Athens, and obliged to 
dwell at Nicopolis, and who, by the same tyrant, might ex¬ 
pect every moment to be sent to Gyarae, or perhaps, to be 
put to death; could preserve his tranquillity only by foster¬ 
ing in his mind the most sovereign contempt of human life. 
He never exults so much, accordingly his eloquence is never 
so animated, as when he represents the futility and nothing¬ 
ness of all its pleasures and all its pains. 

The good-natured Emperor, the absolute sovereign of the 
whole civilized part of the world, who certainly had no pe¬ 
culiar reason to complain of his own allotment, delights in 
expressing his contentment with the ordinary course of things, 
and in pointing out beauties even in those parts of it where 
vulgar observers are not apt to see any. There is a propriety 
and even an engaging grace, he observes, in old age as well 
as in youth; and the weakness and decrepitude of the one 
state are as suitable to nature as the bloom and vigour of the 
other. Death, too, is just as proper a termination of old age, 
as youth is of childhood, or manhood of youth. As we fre¬ 
quently say, he remarks upon another occasion, that the phy¬ 
sician has ordered to such a man to ride on horseback, or to 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


390 

use the cold bath, or to walk barefooted; so ought we to 
say, that Nature, the great conductor and physician of the 
universe, has ordered to such a man a disease, or the ampu¬ 
tation of a limb, or the loss of a child. By the prescriptions 
of ordinary physicians the patient swallows many a bitter po¬ 
tion; undergoes many a painful operation. From the very 
uncertain hope, however, that health may be the consequence, 
he gladly submits to all. The harshest prescriptions of the 
great Physician of nature, the patient may, in the same man¬ 
ner, hope will contribute to his own health, to his own final 
prosperity and happiness; and he may be perfectly assured 
that they not only contribute, but are indispensably necessary 
to the health, to the prosperity and happiness of the universe, 
to the furtherance and advancement of the great plan of Ju¬ 
piter. Had they not been so, the universe would never have 
produced them; its all-wise Architect and Conductor would 
never have suffered them to happen. As all, even the smallest 
of the co-existent parts of the universe, are exactly fitted to 
one another, and all contribute to compose one immense and 
connected system; so all, even apparently the most insigni¬ 
ficant of the successive events which follow one another, make 
parts, and necessary parts, of that great chain of causes and 
effects which had no beginning, and which will have no end: 
and which, as they all necessarily result from the original ar¬ 
rangement and contrivance of the whole; so they are all essen¬ 
tially necessary not only to its prosperity, but to its continuance 
and preservation. Whoever does not cordially embrace what¬ 
ever befalls him, whoever is sorry that it has befallen him, 
whoever wishes that it had not befallen him, wishes, so far as 
in him lies, to stop the motion of the universe, to break that 
great chain of succession, by the progress of which that sys¬ 
tem can alone be continued and preserved, and, for some lit¬ 
tle conveniency of his own, to disorder and discompose the 
whole machine of the world. “ O world!” says he, in a - 
notlier place, “ all things are suitable to me which are suita- 
u ble to thee. Nothing is too early or too late to me which is 
ce seasonable for thee. All is fruit to me which thy seasons 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


391 


“ bring forth. From thee are all things ; in thee are all 
“ things; for thee are all things. One man says, O beloved 
“ city of Cecrops. Wilt not thou say, O beloved city of 
“ God ?” 

From these very sublime doctrines, the Stoics, or at least 
some of the Stoics attempted to deduce all their paradoxes. 

The Stoical wise man endeavoured to enter into the views 
of the great Superintendant of the universe, and to see things 
in the same light in which that divine Being beheld them. 
But to the great Superintendant of the universe, all the dif¬ 
ferent events which the course of his providence may bring 
forth, what to us appear the smallest and the greatest, the 
bursting of a bubble, as Mr Pope says, and that of a world, 
for example, were perfectly equal, were equally parts of that 
great chain which he had predestined from all eternity, were 
equally the effects of the same unerring wisdom, of the same 
universal and boundless benevolence. To the Stoical wise 
man, in the same manner, all those different events were 
perfectly equal. In the course of those events, indeed, a lit¬ 
tle department, in which he had himself some little manage¬ 
ment and direction, had been assigned to him. In this de¬ 
partment he endeavoured to act as properly as he could, and 
to conduct himself according to those orders which, he un¬ 
derstood, had been prescribed to him. But he took no anxi¬ 
ous or passionate concern either in the success or in the dis¬ 
appointment of his own most faithful endeavours. The high¬ 
est prosperity and the total destruction of that little depart¬ 
ment, of that little system which had been in some measure 
committed to his charge, were perfectly indifferent to him. If 
those events had depended upon him, he would have chosen 
the one and he would have rejected the other. But as they 
did not depend upon him, he trusted to a superior wisdom, 
and was perfectly satisfied that the event which happened, 
whatever it might be, was the very event which he himself, 
had he known all the connexions and dependencies of things, 
would most earnestly and devoutly have wished for. What¬ 
ever he did under the influence and direction of those prin- 


392 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII 


ciples was equally perfect; and when he stretched out his fin¬ 
ger, to give the example which they commonly made use of, 
he performed an action in every respect as meritorious as 
worthy of praise and admiration, as when he laid down his 
life for the service of his country. As, to the great Superin- 
tendant of the universe, the greatest and the smallest exer¬ 
tion of his power, the formation and dissolution of a world, 
the formation and dissolution of a bubble, were equally easy, 
were equally admirable, and equally the effects of the same 
divine wisdom and benevolence; so, to the Stoical wise man, 
what we would call the great action, required no more exer¬ 
tion than the little one, was equally easy, proceeded from ex¬ 
actly the same principles, was in no respect more meritorious, 
not worthy of any higher degree of praise and admiration. 

As all those who had arrived at this state of perfection, 
were equally happy; so all those who fell in the smallest de¬ 
gree short of it, how nearly soever they might approach to 
it, were equally miserable. As the man, they said, who was 
but an inch below the surface of the water, could no more 
breathe than he was an hundred yards below it; so the man 
who had not completely subdued all his private, partial, and 
selfish passions, who had any other earnest desire but that for 
the universal happiness, who had not completely emerged 
from that abyss of misery and disorder into which his anxiety 
for the gratification of those private, partial, and selfish pas¬ 
sions had involved him, could no more breathe the free air 
of liberty and independency, could no more enjoy the security • 
and happiness of the wise man, than he who was most remote 
from that situation. As all the actions of the wise man were 
perfect, and equally perfect; so all those of the man who 
had not arrived at this supreme wisdom were faulty, and, as 
some Stoics pretended, equally faulty. As one truth, they 
said, could not be more true, nor one falsehood more false 
than another; so an honourable action could not be more 
honourable, nor a shameful one more shameful than another. 
As in shooting at a mark, the man who missed it by an inch 
had equally missed it with him who had done so by an hun- 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


393 


fired yards: so the man who, in what to us appears the most 
insignificant action, had acted improperly and without a suf¬ 
ficient reason, was equally faulty with him who had done so 
in, what to us appears, the most important; the man who 
has killed a cock, for example, improperly and without a suf¬ 
ficient reason, with him who had murdered his father. 

If the first of those two paradoxes should appear suffi¬ 
ciently violent, the second is evidently too absurd to deserve 
any serious consideration. It is, indeed, so very absurd, that 
one can scarce help suspecting that it must have been in some 
measure misunderstood or misrepresented. At any rate, 1 
cannot allow myself to believe that such men as Zeno or Clean- 
thes, men, it is said, of the most simple as well as of the 
most sublime eloquence, could be the authors, either of these, 
or of the greater part of the other Stoical paradoxes, which 
are in general mere impertinent quibbles, and do so little 
honour to their system that I shall give no further account 
of them. I am disposed to impute them rather to Chrysippus, 
the disciple and follower, indeed, of Zeno and Cleanthes, but 
who, from all that has been delivered down to us concerning 
him, seems to have been a mere dialectical pedant, without 
taste or elegance of any kind. He may have been the first 
who reduced their doctrines into a scholastic or technical sys¬ 
tem of artificial definitions, divisions, and subdivisions; one 
of the most effectual expedients, perhaps, for extinguishing 
whatever degree of good sense there may be in any moral or 
metaphysical doctrine. Such a man may very easily be sup¬ 
posed to have understood too literally some animated expres¬ 
sions of his masters in describing the happiness of the man 
of perfect virtue, and the unhappiness of whoever fell short 
of that character. 

The Stoics in general seem to have admitted that there 
might be a degree of proficiency in those who had not ad¬ 
vanced to perfect virtue and happiness. They distributed 
those proficients into different classes, according to the degree 
of their advancement; and they called the imperfect virtues 
which they supposed them capable of exercising, not recti- 


394 


0? SYSTEMS OF 


Pan VII. 


tudes, but proprieties, fitnesses, decent and becoming actions, 
for which a plausible or probable reason could be assigned, 
what Cicero expresses by the Latin word officia , and Seneca 
I think more exactly, by that of convenientia . The doctrine 
of those imperfect, but attainable virtues, seems to have con¬ 
stituted what we may call the practical morality of the Stoics. 
It is the subject of Cicero’s Offices; and is said to have been 
that of another book written by Marcus Brutus, but which is 
now lost. 

The plan and system which Nature has sketched out for 
our conduct, seems to be altogether different from that of the 
Stoical philosophy. 

By Nature the events which immediately affect that little 
department in which we ourselves have some little manage¬ 
ment and direction, which immediately affect ourselves, our 
friends, our country, are the events which interest us the 
most, and which chiefly excite our desires and aversions, our 
hopes and fears, our joys and sorrows. Should those passions 
be, what they are very apt to be, too vehement. Nature has 
provided a proper remedy and correction. The real or even 
the imaginary presence of the impartial spectator, the autho¬ 
rity of the man within the breast, is always at hand to over¬ 
awe them into the proper tone and temper of moderation. 

If notwithstanding our most faithful exertions, all the 
events which can affect this little department, should turn out 
the most unfortunate and disastrous, Nature has by no means 
left us without consolation. That consolation may be drawn, 
not only from the complete approbation of the man within 
the breast, but, if possible, from a still nobler and more ge¬ 
nerous principle, from a firm reliance upon, and a reverential 
submission to, that benevolent wisdom which directs all the 
events of human life, and which, we may be assured, would 
never have suffered those misfortunes to happen, had they 
not been indispensably necessary for the good of the whole. 

Nature has not prescribed to us this sublime contempla¬ 
tion as the great business and occupation of our lives. She 
only points it out to us as the consolation of our misfortunes. 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


395 


The Stoical philosophy prescribes it as the great business and 
occupation of our lives. That philosophy teaches us to in¬ 
terest ourselves earnestly and anxiously in no events, external 
to the good order of our own minds, to the propriety of our 
own choosing and rejecting, except in those which concern 
a department where we neither have nor ought to have any 
sort of management or direction, the department of the great 
Superintendant of the universe. By the perfect apathy which 
it prescribes to us, by endeavouring, not merely to moderate, 
but to eradicate all our private, partial, and selfish affections* 
by suffering us to feel for whatever can befal ourselves, our 
friends, our country, not even the sympathetic and reduced 
passions, of the impartial spectator, it endeavours to render- 
us altogether indifferent and unconcerned in the success or 
miscarriage of every thing which Nature has prescribed to 
us as the proper business and occupation of our lives. 

The reasonings of philosophy, it may be said, though they 
may confound and perplex the understanding, can never break 
down the necessary connexion .which Nature has established 
between causes and their effects. The causes which naturally 
excite our desires and aversions, our hopes and fears, our 
joys and sorrows, would no doubt, notwithstanding all the 
reasons of Stoicism, produce upon each individual, according 
to the decree of his actual sensibility, their proper and neces*- 
sary effects. The judgments of the man within the breast, 
however, might be a good deal affected by those reasonings, 
and that great inmate might be taught by them to attempt 
to overawe all our private, partial, and selfish affections into 
a more or less perfect tranquillity. To direct the judgments 
of this inmate is the great purpose of all systems of morality. 
That the Stoical philosophy had very great influence upon 
the character and conduct of its followers, cannot be doubted; 
and that though it might sometimes incite them to unneces¬ 
sary -violence, its general tendency was to animate them to 
actions of the most heroic magnanimity and most extensive 
benevolence. 

IV. Besides these ancient, there are some modern systems, 

3 D 2 


396 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


according to which virtue consists in propriety; or in the suit¬ 
ableness of the affection from which we act, to the cause or 
object which excites it. The system of Dr Clark, which 
places virtue in acting according to the relations of thing, in 
regulating our conduct according to the fitness or incongruity 
which there may be in the application of certain actions to 
certain things, or to certain relations: that of Mr Woollaston, 
which places it in acting according to the truth of things, ac¬ 
cording to their proper nature and essence, or in treating 
them as what they really are, and not as what they are not: 
that of my Lord Shaftesbury, which places it in maintaining 
a proper balance of the affections, and in allowing no passion 
to go beyond its proper sphere; are all of them more or less 
inaccurate descriptions of the same fundamental idea. 

None of those systems either give, or even pretend to give, 
any precise or distinct measure by which this fitness or pro¬ 
priety of affection can be ascertained or judged of. That 
precise and distinct measure can be found nowhere but in 
the sympathetic feelings of the impartial and well informed 
spectator. 

The description of virtue, besides, which is either given, 
or at least meant and intended to be given, in each of those 
systems, for some of the modern authors are not very fortun¬ 
ate in their manner of expressing themselves, is no doubt 
quite just, so far as it goes. There is no virtue without pro¬ 
priety, and wherever there is propriety some degree of appro¬ 
bation is due. But still this description is imperfect. For 
though propriety is an essential ingredient in every virtuous 
action, it is not always the sole ingredient. Beneficent ac¬ 
tions have in them another quality by which they appear not 
only to deserve approbation but recompense. None of those 
systems account either easily or sufficiently for that superior 
degree of esteem which seems due to such actions, or for that 
diversity of sentiment which they naturally excite. Neither 
is the description of vice more complete. For, in the same 
manner, though impropriety is a necessary ingredient in every 
vicious action, it is not always the sole ingredient; and there 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


39T 


is often the highest degree of absurdity and impropriety in 
very harmless and insignificant actions. Deliberate actions, 
of a pernicious tendency to those we live with, have, besides 
their impropriety, a peculiar quality of their own, by which 
they appear to deserve, not only disapprobation, but punish¬ 
ment*, and to be the objects, not of dislike merely, but of re¬ 
sentment and revenge: and none of those systems easily and 
sufficiently account for that superior degree of detestation 
which we feel for such actions. 




CHAPTER II. 

Of those Systems 'which make Virtue consist in Prudence . 

THE most ancient of those systems which make virtue 
consist in prudence, and of which any considerable remains 
have come down to us, is that of Epicurus, who is said, how¬ 
ever, to have borrowed all the leading principles of his phi¬ 
losophy from some of those who had gone before him, par¬ 
ticularly from Aristippus; though it is very probable, not¬ 
withstanding this allegation of his enemies, that at least his 
manner of applying those principles was altogether his own. 

According to Epicurus*, bodily pleasure and pain were 
the sole ultimate objects of natural desire and aversion. That 
they were always the natural objects of those passions, he 
thought required no proof. Pleasure might, indeed, appear 
sometimes to be avoided; not, however, because it was plea¬ 
sure, but because by the enjoyment of it, we should either 
forfeit some greater pleasure, or expose ourselves to some 
pain that was more to be avoided than this pleasure was to 
be desired. Pain, in the same manner, might appear some¬ 
times to be eligible; not however, because it was pain, but 
because by enduring it we might either avoid a still greater 


See Cicero de finibus, Jib. i. Diogenes Laert. 1. x. 


398 


OP SYSTEMS OP 


Part VII. 


pain, or acquire some pleasure of much more importance. 
That bodily pain and pleasure, therefore, were always the na- 
; ural objects of desire and aversion, was, he thought, abundant¬ 
ly evident. Nor was it less so, he imagined, that they were 
the sole ultimate objects of those passions. Whatever else 
was either desired or avoided, was so, according to him, upon 
account of its tendency to produce one or other of those sen¬ 
sations. The tendency to procure pleasure rendered power 
and riches desirable, as the contrary tendency to produce 
pain made poverty and insignificancy the objects of aver¬ 
sion. Honour and reputation were valued, because the e- 
steem and love of those we live with were of the greatest 
consequence both to procure pleasure and defend us from 
pain. Ignominy and bad fame, on the contrary, were to 
be avoided, because the hatred, contempt, and resentment 
of those we lived with, destroyed all security, and necessarily 
exposed us to the greatest bodily evils. 

All the pleasures and pains of the mind were, according- 
to Epicurus, ultimately derived from those of the body. 
The mind was happy when it though of the past pleasures of 
the body, and hoped for others to come: and it was misera¬ 
ble when it thought of the pains which the body had former¬ 
ly endured, and dreaded the same or greater thereafter. 

But the pleasures and pains of the mind, though ulti¬ 
mately derived from those of the body, were vastly greater 
than their originals. The body felt only the sensation of the 
present instant, whereas the mind felt also the past and the 
future, the one by remembrance, the other by anticipation, 
and consequently both suffered and enjoyed much more. 
When we are under the greatest bodily pain, he observed, 
we shall always find, if we attend to it, that it is not the suf¬ 
fering of the present instant which chiefly torments us, but 
either the agonizing remembrance of the past, or the yet more 
horrible dread of the future. The pain of each instant, con¬ 
sidered by itself, and cut off from all that goes before and all 
that comes after it, is a trifile not worth the regarding. Yet 
this is all which the body can ever be said to suffer. In the 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


399 


same manner, when we enjoy the greatest pleasure, we shall 
always find that the bodily sensation, the sensation of the 
present instant, makes but a small part of our happiness, that 
our enjoyment chiefly arises either from the cheerful recol¬ 
lection of the past, or the still more joyous anticipation of the 
future, and that the mind always contributes by much the 
largest share of the entertainment. 

Since our happiness and misery, therefore, depended chief¬ 
ly on the mind, if this part of our nature was well disposed, 
if our thoughts and opinions were as they should be, it was 
of little importance in what manner our body was affected. 
Though under great bodily pain, we might still enjoy a con¬ 
siderable share of happiness, if our reason and judgment 
maintained their superiority. We might entertain ourselves 
with the remembrance of past, and with the hopes of future 
pleasure; we might soften the rigour of our pains, by recol¬ 
lecting what it was which, even in this situation, we were 
under any necessity of suffering. That this was merely the 
bodily sensation, the pain of the present instant, which by 
itself could never be very very great. That whatever agony 
we suffered from the dread of its continuance, was the effect 
of an opinion of the mind which might be corrected by juster 
sentiments; by considering that, if our pains were violent, 
they would probably be of short duration; and that if they 
were of long continuance, they would probably be moderate, 
and admit of many intervals of ease; and that, at any rate, 
death was always at hand and within call to deliver us, which 
as, according to him, it put an end to all sensation, either of 
pain or pleasure, could not be regarded as an evil. When 
we are, said he, death is not; and when death is, we are not; 
death therefore can be nothing to us. 

If the actual sensation of positive pain was in itself so little 
to be feared, that of pleasure was still less to be desired. 
Naturally the sensation of pleasure was much less pungent 
than that of pain. If, therefore, this last could take so very 
little from the happiness of a well-disposed mind, the other 
could add scarce any thing to it. When the body was free 


400 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


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from pain and the mind from fear and anxiety* the super- 
added sensation of bodily pleasure could be of very little 
importance; and though it might diversify, could not pro¬ 
perly be said to increase the happiness of this situation. 

In ease of body, therefore, and in security or tranquillity 
of mind, consisted, according to Epicurus, the most perfect 
state of human nature, the most complete happiness which 
man was capable of enjoying. To obtain this great end of 
natural, desire was the sole object of all the virtues, which, 
according to him, were not desirable upon their own ac¬ 
count, but upon account of their tendency to bring about this 
situation. 

Prudence, for example, though, according to this philo¬ 
sophy, the source and principle of all the virtues, was not de¬ 
sirable upon its own account. That careful and laborious 
and circumspect state of mind, ever watchful and ever atten¬ 
tive to the most distant consequences of every action, could 
not be a thing pleasant or agreeable for its own sake, but 
upon account of its tendency to procure the greatest goods 
and to keep off the greatest evils. 

To abstain from pleasure too, to curb and restrain our 
natural passions for enjoyment, which was the office of tem¬ 
perance, could never be desirable for its own sake. The whole 
value of this virtue arose from its utility, from its enabling 
us to postpone the present enjoyment for the sake of a greater 
to come, or to avoid a greater pain that might ensue from it. 
Temperance, in short, was nothing but prudence with regard 
to pleasure. 

To support labour, to endure pain, to be exposed to dan¬ 
ger or to death, the situations which fortitude would often 
lead us into, were surely still less the objects of natural de¬ 
sire. They were chosen only to avoid greater evils. We 
submitted to labour, in order to avoid the greater shame and 
pain of poverty, and we exposed ourselves to danger and to 
death in defence of our liberty and property, the means and 
instruments of pleasure and happiness; or in defence of our 
country, in the safety of which our own was necessarily 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


401 


comprehended. Fortitude enabled us to do all this cheer¬ 
fully, as the best which, in our present situation, could pos¬ 
sibly be done, and was in reality no more than prudence, 
good judgment, and presence of mind in properly appreciat¬ 
ing pain, labour, and danger, always choosing the less in or¬ 
der to avoid the greater. 

It is the same case with justice. To abstain from what 
is another’s was not desirable on its own account, and it could 
not surely be better for you, that I should possess what is 
my own, than that you should possess it. You ought, how¬ 
ever, to abstain from whatever belongs to me, because by do¬ 
ing otherwise you will provoke the resentment and indigna¬ 
tion of mankind. The security and tranquillity of your mind 
will be entirely destroyed. You will be filled with fear and 
consternation at the thought of that punishment which you 
will imagine that men are at all times ready to inflict upon 
you, and from which no power, no art, no concealment, will 
ever, in your own fancy, be sufficient to protect you. That 
other species of justice which consists in doing proper good 
offices to different persons, according to the various relations 
of neighbours, kinsmen, friends, benefactors, superiors, or 
equals, which they may stand in to us is recommended 
by the same reasons. To act properly in all these differ¬ 
ent relations procures us the esteem and love of those we 
live with; as to do otherwise excites their contempt and ha¬ 
tred. By the one we naturally secure, by the other we 
necessarily endanger our own ease and tranquillity, the great 
and ultimate objects of all our desires. The whole virtue 
of justice, therefore, the most important of all the virtues, 
is no more than discreet and prudent conduct with regard 
to our neighbours. 

Such is the doctrine of Epicurus concerning the nature of 
virtue. It may seem extraordinary that this philosopher, 
who is described as a person of the most amiable manners, 
should never have observed, that, whatever may be the ten¬ 
dency of those virtues, or of the contrary vices, with regard 
to our bodily ease and security, the sentiments which they 

3 e 


402 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Pan VIL 


naturally excite in others are the objects of a much more 
passionate desire or aversion than all their other consequences; 
that to be amiable, to be respectable, to be the proper object 
of esteem, is by evkry well-disposed mind more valued than 
all the ease and security which love, respect, and esteem can 
procure us; that on the contrary to be odious, to be con¬ 
temptible, to be the proper object of indignation, is more 
dreadful than all that we can suffer in our body from hatred, 
contempt, or indignation; and that consequently our desire 
of the one character, and our aversion to the other, cannot 
arise from any regard to the effects which either of them is 
likely to produce upon the body. 

This system is, no doubt, altogether inconsistent with that 
which I have been endeavouring to establish. It is not dif¬ 
ficult, however, to discover from what phasis, if I may say 
so, from what particular view or aspect of nature, this ac¬ 
count of things derives its probability. By the wise contri¬ 
vance of the Author of nature, virtue is upon all ordinary 
occasions, even with regard to this life, real wisdom, and the 
surest and readiest means of obtaining both safety and advan¬ 
tage. Our success or disappointment in our undertakings 
must very much depend upon the good or bad opinion which 
is commonly entertained of us, and upon the general disposi¬ 
tion of those we live with, either to assist or to oppose us. 
But the best, the surest, the easiest, and the readiest way of 
obtaining the advantageous and of avoiding the unfavourable 
judgments of others, is undoubtedly to render ourselves the 
proper objects of the former and not of the latter. « Do 
you desire,” said Socrates, « the reputation of a good musi- 
« cian ? The only sure way of obtaining it, is to become a 
« good musician. Would you desire in the same manner to 
« be thought capable of serving your country either as a ge- 
« neral or as a statesman ? The best way in this case too is 
« really to acquire the art and experience of war and go- 
“ vernment, and to become really fit to be a general or a 
" statesman. And in the same manner if you would be 
“ reckoned sober, temperate, just, and equitable, the best 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


403 


* ( way of acquiring this reputation is to become sober, tem- 
“ perate, just, and equitable. If you can really render yourself 
“ amiable, respectable, and the proper object of esteem, 
ft there is no fear of your not soon acquiring the love, the re- 
* 4 spect, and esteem of those you live with.” Since the prac¬ 
tice of virtue, therefore is in general so advantageous, and that 
of vice so contrary to our interest, the consideration of those 
opposite tendencies undoubtedly stamps an additional beauty 
and propriety upon the one, and a new deformity and impro¬ 
priety upon the other. Temperance, magnanimity, justice, 
and beneficence, come thus to be approved of, not only un¬ 
der their proper characters, but under the additional char¬ 
acter of the highest wisdom and most real prudence. And 
in the same manner, the contrary vices of intemperance, 
pusillanimity, injustice, and either malevolence or sordid 
selfishness, come to be disapproved of, not only under their 
proper characters, but under the additional character of the 
most short-sighted folly and weakness. Epicurus appears 
in every virtue to have attended to this species of propri¬ 
ety only. It is that which is most apt to occur to. those who 
are endeavouring to persuade others to regularity of con¬ 
duct. When men by their practice, and perhaps too by 
their maxims, manifestly show that the natural beauty of vir¬ 
tue is not like to, have much effect upon them, how is it pos¬ 
sible to move them but by representing the folly of their 
conduct, and how much they themselves are in the end likely 
to suffer by it? 

By running up all the different virtues too to this one spe¬ 
cies. of propriety, Epicurus indulged a propensity, which is 
natural to all men, but which philosophers in particular are 
apt to cultivate with a peculiar fondness, as the great means 
of displaying their ingenuity, the propensity to account for 
all appearances from as few principles as possible. And he, 
no doubt, indulged this propensity still further, when he re¬ 
ferred all the primary objects of natural desire and aversion 
to the pleasures and pains of the body. The great patron 
of the atomical philosophy, who took so much pleasure in 

3 E 2 


404 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


deducing all the powers and qualities of bodies from the 
most obvious and familiar, the figure, motion, and arrange¬ 
ment of the small parts of matter, felt no doubt a similar sa¬ 
tisfaction, when he accounted, in the same manner, for all the 
sentiments and passions of the mind from those which are 
most obvious and familiar. 

The system of Epicurus agreed with those of Plato, Aris¬ 
totle, and Zeno, in making virtue consist in acting in the 
most suitable manner to obtain* primary objects of natural 
desire. It differed from all of them in two other respects; 
first, in the account which it gave of those primary objects 
of natural desire; and secondly, in the account which it gave 
of the excellence of virtue, or of the reason, why that qual¬ 
ity ought to be esteemed. 

The primary objects of natural desire consisted, according 
to Epicurus, in bodily pleasure and pain, and in nothing else: 
whereas, according to the other three philosophers, there 
were many other objects, such as knowledge, such as the 
happiness of our relations, of our friends, of our country, 
which were ultimately desirable for their own sakes. 

Virtue too, according to Epicurus, did not deserve to be 
pursued for its own sake, nor was itself one of the ultimate 
objects of natural appetite, but was eligible only upon account 
of its tendency to prevent pain and to procure ease and plea¬ 
sure. In the opinion of the other three, on the contrary, 
it was desirable not merely as the means of procuring the 
other primary objects of natural desire, but as something 
which was in itself more valuable than them all. Man, they 
thought, being born for action, his happiness must consist, 
not merely in the agreeableness of his passive sensations, but 
also in the propriety of his active exertions. 


* Prima natune. 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


405 


CHAPTER III. 

Of those Systems •which malce Virtue consist in Benevolence. 

THE system which makes virtue consist in benevolence, 
though I think not so ancient as all of those which I have al¬ 
ready given an account of, is, however, of very great antiqui¬ 
ty. It seems to have been the doctrine of the greater part 
of those philosophers who, about and after the age of Agus- 
tus, called themselves Eclectics, who pretended to follow chief¬ 
ly the opinions of Plato and Pythagoras, and who, upon that 
account, are commonly known by the name of the later 
Platonists. 

In the divine nature, according to these authors, benevo¬ 
lence or love was the sole principle of action, and directed 
the exertion of all the other attributes. The wisdom of the 
Deity was employed in finding out the means for bringing 
about those ends which his goodness suggested, as his infin¬ 
ite power was exerted to execute them. Benevolence, how¬ 
ever, was still the supreme and governing attribute, to which 
the others were subservient, and from which the whole ex¬ 
cellency, or the whole morality, if I may be allowed such an 
expression, of the divine operations, was ultimately derived. 
The whole perfection and virtue of the human mind consist¬ 
ed in some resemblance or participation of the divine perfec¬ 
tions, and, consequently, in being filled with the same prin¬ 
ciple of benevolence and love which influenced all the ac¬ 
tions of the Deity. The actions of men which flowed from 
this motive were alone truly praise-worthy, or could claim 
any merit in the sight of the Deity. It was by actions of ' 
charity and love only that we could imitate, as became us, 
the conduct of God, that we could express our humble and 
devout admiration of his infinite perfections, that by foster¬ 
ing in our own minds the same divine principle, we could 
bring our own affections to a greater resemblance with his 


406 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


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holy attributes, and thereby become more proper objects of 
his love and esteem; till at last we arrived at that immediate 
converse and communication with the Deity, to which it was 
the great object of this philosophy to raise us. 

This system, as it was much esteemed by many ancient fa¬ 
thers of the Christian church, so after the Reformation it 
was adopted by several divines of the most eminent piety and 
learning and of the most amiable manners j particularly, by 
Dr Ralph Cudworth, by Dr Henry More, and by Mr John 
Smith of Cambridge. But of all the patrons of this system,, 
ancient or modern, the late Dr Hutcheson was undoubtedly, 
beyond all comparison, the most acute, the most distinct, the 
most philosophical, and, what is of the greatest consequence 
of all, the soberest and most judicious. 

That virtue consists in benevolence is a notion supported; 
by many appearances in human nature. It has been observed 
already, that proper benevolence is the most graceful and a-^ 
greeable of all the affections, that it is recommended to.ua 
by a double sympathy, that as its tendency is necessarily be-* 
neficent, it is the proper object of gratitude and reward, and 
that upon all these accounts it appears to our natural senti¬ 
ments to possess a merit superior to any other. It has been, 
observed too, that even the weaknesses of benevolence are 
not very disagreeable to us, whereas those of every other pas¬ 
sion are always extremely disgusting. Who does not abhor 
excessive malice, excessive selfishness, or excessive resent¬ 
ment? But the most excessive indulgence even of partial 
friendship is not so offensive. It is the benevolent passions 
only which can exert themselves without any regard or at¬ 
tention to propriety, and yet retain something about them 
which is engaging. There is something pleasing even in 
mere instinctive good-will which goes on to do good offices, 
without once reflecting whether by this conduct it is the pro¬ 
per object either of blame or approbation. It is not so with 
the other passions. The moment they are deserted, the mo¬ 
ment they are unaccompanied by the sense of propriety, they 
cease to be agreeable. 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


40? 


As benevolence bestows upon those actions which proceed 
from it, a beauty superior to all others, so the want of it, and 
much more the contrary inclination, communicates a peculiar 
deformity to whatever evidences such a disposition. Perni¬ 
cious actions are often punishable for no other reason than 
because they show a want of sufficient attention to the hap¬ 
piness of our neighbour. 

Besides all this, Dr Hutcheson* observed, that whenever 
any action, supposed to proceed from benevolent affections, 
some other motive had been discovered, our sense of the 
merit of this action was just so far diminished as this motive 
was believed to have influenced it. If an action, supposed 
to proceed from gratitude, should be discovered to have a- 
risen from an expectation of some new favour, or if what 
was apprehended to proceed from public spirit, should be 
found out to have taken its origin from the hope of a pecu¬ 
niary reward, such a discovery would entirely destroy all no¬ 
tion of merit or praise-worthiness in either of these actions. 

• Since, therefore, the mixture of any selfish motive, like that 
of a baser alloy, diminished or took away altogether the me¬ 
rit which would otherwise have belonged to any action, it was 
evident, he imagined, that virtue must consist in pure and 
disinterested benevolence alone. 

When those actions, on the contrary, which are common¬ 
ly supposed to proceed from a selfish motive, are discovered 
to have arisen from a benevolent one, it greatly enhances 
our sense of their merit. If we believed of any person that 
he endeavoured to advance his fortune from no other view 
but that of doing friendly offices, and of making proper re¬ 
turns to his benefactors, we should only love and esteem him 
the more. And this observation seemed still more to con¬ 
firm the conclusion, that it was benevolence only which could 
stamp upon any action the character of virtue. 

Last of all, what, he imagined, was an evident proof of 
the justness of this account of virtue, in all the disputes of 


See Inquiry concerning Virtue, sect. I, and 2. 


408 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


casuists concerning the rectitude of conduct, the public good, 
lie observed, was the standard to which they constantly re¬ 
ferred; thereby universally acknowledging that whatever 
tended to promote the happiness of mankind was right, and 
laudable, and virtuous, and the contrary, wrong, blameable, 
and vicious. In the late debates about passive obedience 
and the right of resistance, the sole point in controversy a- 
mong men of sense was, whether universal submission would 
probably be attended with greater evils than temporary in¬ 
surrections when privileges were invaded. Whether what, 
upon the whole, tended most to the happiness of mankind, 
was not also morally good, was never once, he said, made a 
question. 

Since benevolence, therefore, was the only motive which 
could bestow upon any action the character of virtue, the 
greater the benevolence which was evinced by any action, the 
greater the praise which must belong to it. 

Those actions which aimed at the happiness of a great 
community, as they demonstrated a more enlarged benevo¬ 
lence than those which aimed only at that of a smaller sys¬ 
tem, so were they, likewise, proportionally the more virtu¬ 
ous. The most virtuous of all affections, therefore, was that 
which embraced as its objects the happiness of all intelligent 
beings. The least virtuous, on the contrary, of those to 
which the character of virtue could in any respect belong, 
was that which aimed no further than at the happiness of an 
individual, such as a son, a brother, a friend. 

In directing all our actions to promote the greatest possi ¬ 
ble good, in submitting all inferior affections to the desire of 
the general happiness of mankind, in regarding one’s self 
but as one of the many, whose prosperity was to be pursued 
no further than it was consistent with, or conducive to that 
of the whole, consisted the perfection of virtue. 

Self-love was a principle which could never be virtuous 
in any degree or in any direction. It was vicious whenever 
it obstructed the general good. When it had no other effect 
than to make the individual take care of his own happiness, 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


409 


It was merely innocent, and though it deserved no praise, 
neither ought it to incur any blame. Those benevolent ac¬ 
tions which were performed, notwithstanding some strong 
motive from self-interest, were the more virtuous upon that 
account. They demonstrated the strength and vigour of 
the benevolent principle. 

Dr Hutcheson* was so far from allowing self-love to be 
in any case a motive of virtuous actions, that even a regard 
to the pleasure of self-approbation, to the comfortable ap¬ 
plause of our own consciences, according to him, diminished 
the merit of a benevolent action. This was a selfish motive, 
he thought, which, so far as it contributed to any action, 
demonstrated the weakness of that pure and disinterested 
benevolence which could alone stamp upon the conduct of 
man the character of virtue. In the common judgments of 
mankind, however, this regard to the approbation of our 
own minds is so far from being considered as what can in 
any respect diminish the virtue of any action, that it is rather 
looked upon as the sole motive which deserves the appella¬ 
tion of virtuous. 

Such is the account given of the nature of virtue in this 
amiable system, a system which has a peculiar tendency to 
nourish and support in the human heart the noblest and the 
most agreeable of all affections, and not only to check the 
injustice of self-love, but in some measure to discourage that 
principle altogether, by representing it as what could never 
reflect any honour upon those who were influenced by it. 

As some of the other systems which I have already given an 
account of, do not sufficiently explain from whence arises the 
peculiar excellency of the supreme virtue of beneficence, so 
this system seems to have the contrary defect, of not suffi¬ 
ciently explaining from whence arises our approbation of the 
inferior virtues of prudence, vigilance, circumspection, tem¬ 
perance, constancy, firmness. The view and aim of our 

* Inquiry concerning virtue, sect. 2. art 4. also Illustrations on the mqral 
sense, sect. 5. last paragraph. 

f5 F 


410 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


affections, the beneficent and hurtful effects which they tend 
to produce, are the only qualities at all attended to in this 
system. Their propriety and impropriety, their suitableness 
and unsuitableness, to the cause which excites them, are dis¬ 
regarded altogether. 

Regard to our own private happiness and interest, too, 
appear upon many occasions very laudable principles of ac¬ 
tion. The habits of oeconomy, industry, discretion, atten¬ 
tion and application of thought, are generally supposed to be 
cultivated from self-interested motives, and at the same 
time are apprehended to be very praise-worthy qualities, 
which deserve the esteem and approbation of every body. 
The mixture of a selfish motive, it is true, seems often to 
sully the beauty of those actions which ought to arise from 
a benevolent affection. The cause of this, however, is not 
that self-love can never be the motive of a virtuous action, 
but that the benevolent principle appears in this particular 
case to want its due degree of strength, and to be altogether 
unsuitable to its object. The character, therefore, seems 
evidently imperfect, and upon the whole to deserve blame 
rather than praise. The mixture of a benevolent motive in 
an action to which self-love alone ought to be sufficient to 
prompt us, is not so apt indeed to diminish our sense of its 
propriety, or of the virtue of the person who performs it. 
We are ribt ready to suspect any person of being defective 
in selfishness. This is by no means the weak side of human 
nature, or the failing of which we are apt to be suspicious. 

If we could really believe, however, of any man, that, was 
it not from a regard to his family and friends, he would not 
take that proper care of his health, his life, or his fortune, 
to which self-preservation alone ought to be sufficient to 
prompt him, it would undoubtedly be a failing, though one 
of those amiable failings which render a person rather 
the object of pity than of contempt or hatred. It would 
still, however, somewhat diminish the dignity and respecta¬ 
bleness of his character. Carelessness and tvant of oeconomy , 
are universally disapproved of, not, however, as proceeding 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


411 


from a want of benevolence, but from a want of the proper 
attention to the objects of self-interest. 

Though the standard by which casuists frequently deter¬ 
mine what is right or wrong in human conduct, be its ten¬ 
dency to the welfare or disorder of society, it does not fol¬ 
low that a regard to the welfare of society should be the sole 
virtuous motive of action, but only that, in any competition, 
it ought to cast the balance against all other motives. 

Benevolence may, perhaps, be the sole principle of ac¬ 
tion in the Deity, and there are several, not improbable, ar¬ 
guments which tend to persuade us that it is so. It is not 
easy to conceive what other motive an independent and 
all-perfect Being, who stands in need of nothing external, 
and whose happiness is complete in himself, can act from. 
But whatever may be the case with the Deity, so im¬ 
perfect a creature as man, the support of whose existence 
requires so many things external to him, must often act from 
many other motives The condition of human nature were 
peculiarly hard, if those affections, which, by the very na¬ 
ture of our being, ought frequently to influence our conduct, 
could upon no occasion appear virtuous, or deserve esteem 
and commendation from any body.. 

Those three systems, that which places virtue in proprie¬ 
ty, that which places it in prudence, and that which makes 
it consist in benevolence, are the principal accounts which 
have been given of the nature of virtue. To one or other of 
them, all the other descriptions of virtue, how different so¬ 
ever they may appear, are easily reducible. 

That system which places virtue in obedience to the will 
of the Deity, may be counted either among those which 
make it consist in prudence, or among those which make it 
consist in propriety. When it is asked, why we ought to 
obey the will of the Deity, this question, which would be im¬ 
pious and absurd in the highest degree if asked from any doubt 
that we ought to obey him, can admit but of two different an¬ 
swers. It must either be said that we ought to obey the will 
of the Deity because he is a Being of infinite power, who will 

3 f 2 


412 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Pan VII. 


reward us eternally if we do so, and punish us eternally if we 
do otherwise*, or it must be said, that independent of any re¬ 
gard to our own happiness, or to rewards and punishments 
of any kind, there is a congruity and fitness that a creature 
should obey its creator, that a limited and imperfect being 
should submit to one of infinite and incomprehensible per¬ 
fections. Besides one or other of these two, it is impossi¬ 
ble to conceive that any other answer can be given to this 
question. If the first answer be the proper one, virtue con¬ 
sists in prudence, or in the proper pursuit of our own final 
interest and happiness*, since it is upon this account that 
we are obliged to obey the will of the Deity. If the second 
answer be the proper one, virtue must consist in propriety, 
since the ground of our obligation to obedience is the suita¬ 
bleness or congruity of the sentiments of humility and sub¬ 
mission to the superiority of the object which excites them. 

That system which places virtue in utility, coincides too 
with that which makes it consist in propriety. According 
to this system, all those qualities of the mind which are a- 
greeable or advantageous, either to the person himself or to 
others, are approved of as virtuous, and the contrary disap¬ 
proved of as vicious. But the agreeableness or utility of 
any affection depends upon the degree which it is allowed 
to subsist in. Every affection is useful when it is confined 
to a certain degree of moderation; and every affection is 
disadvantageous when it exceeds the proper bounds. Ac¬ 
cording to this system therefore, virtue consists not in any 
one affection, but in the proper degree of all the affections. 
The only difference between it and that which I have been 
endeavouring to establish, is, that it makes utility, and not 
sympathy, or the correspondent affection of the spectator, 
the natural and original measure of this proper degree. 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


413 


CHAPTER IV. 

Of Licentious Systems. 

ALL those systems, which I have hitherto given an ac¬ 
count of, suppose that there is a real and essential distinc¬ 
tion between vice and virtue, whatever these qualities may 
consist in. There is a real and essential difference between 
the propriety and impropriety of any affection, between be¬ 
nevolence and any other principle of action, betwen real pru¬ 
dence and short-sighted folly or precipitate rashness. In the 
main too, all of them contribute to encourage the praise-wor¬ 
thy, and to discourage the blameable disposition. 

It may be true, perhaps, of some of them, that they tend, 
in some measure, to break the balance of the affections, and 
to give the mind a particular bias to some principles of ac¬ 
tion, beyond the proportion that is due to them. The an¬ 
cient systems which place virtue in propriety, seem chiefly 
to recommend the great, the awful, and the respectable vir¬ 
tues, the virtues of self-government, and self-command; forti¬ 
tude, magnanimity, independency upon fortune, the contempt 
of all outward accidents, of pain, poverty, exile, and death. It 
is in these great exertions that the noblest propriety of conduct 
is displayed. The soft, the amiable, the gentle virtues, all the 
virtues of indulgent humanity, are, in comparison, but little 
insisted upon, and seem, on the contrary, by the Stoics in par¬ 
ticular, to have been often regarded as mere weaknesses which 
it behoved a wise man not to harbour in his breast. 

The benevolent system, on the other hand, while it fos¬ 
ters and encourages all those milder virtues in the highest 
degree, seems entirely to neglect the more awful and respec¬ 
table qualities of the mind. It even denies them the appel¬ 
lation of virtues. It calls them moral abilities, and treats 
them as qualities which do not deserve the same sort of es¬ 
teem and approbation that is due to what is properly deno- 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


4 lit 


minated virtue. All those principles of action which aim 
only at our own interest, it treats, if that be possible, still 
worse. So far from having any merit of their own, they di¬ 
minish, it pretends, the merit of benevolence, when they co- 
operate with it, and prudence it is asserted, when employed 
only in promoting private interest, can never even be ima¬ 
gined a virtue. 

That system, again, which makes virtue consist in pru¬ 
dence only, while it gives the highest encouragement to the 
habits of caution, vigilance, sobriety, and judicious modera¬ 
tion, seems to degrade equally both the amiable and re¬ 
spectable virtues, and to strip the former of all their beauty, 
and the latter of all their grandeur. 

But notwithstanding these defects, the general tendency 
of each of those three systems is to encourage the best and 
most laudable habits of the human mind: and it were well 
for society, if, either mankind in general, or even those few 
who pretend to live according to any philosophical rule, 
were to regulate their conduct by the precepts of any one of 
them. We may learn from each of them something that is 
both valuable and peculiar. If it was possible, by precept 
and exhortation, to inspire the mind with fortitude and mag¬ 
nanimity, the ancient systems of propriety would seem suf¬ 
ficient to do this. Or if it was possible, by the same means, 
to soften it into humanity, and to awaken the affections of 
kindness and general love towards those we live with, some 
of the pictures with which the benevolent system presents 
us, might seem capable of producing this effect. We may 
learn from the system of Epicurus, though undoubtedly the 
most imperfect of all the three, how much the practice of 
both the amiable and respectable virtues is conducive to our 
own interest, to our own ease and safety and quiet even in 
this life. As Epicurus placed happiness in the attainment of 
ease and security, he exerted himself in a particular manner 
to shew that virtue was, not merely the best and the surest, 
but the only means of acquiring those invaluable possessions. 
The good effects of virtue, upon our inward tranquillity and 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


415 


peace of mind, are what other philosophers have chiefly ce¬ 
lebrated. Epicurus, without neglecting this topic, has chief¬ 
ly insisted upon the influence of that amiable quality on our 
outward prosperity and safety. It was upon this account 
that his writings were so much studied in the ancient world 
by men of all different philosophical parties. It is from him 
that Cicero, the great enemy of the Epicurean system, bor¬ 
rows his most agreeable proofs that virtue alone is sufficient 
to secure happiness. Seneca, though a Stoic, the sect most 
opposite to that of Epicurus, yet quotes this philosopher more 
frequently than any other. 

There is, however, another system which seems to take 
away altogether the distinction between vice and virtue, and 
of which the tendency is, upon that account, wholly perni¬ 
cious; I mean the system of Dr Mandeville. Though the 
notions of this author are in almost every respect erroneous, 
there arc, however, some appearances in human nature, 
which, when viewed in a certain manner, seem at first sight 
to favour them. These, described and exaggerated by the 
lively and humorous, though coarse and rustic eloquence of Dr 
Mandeville, have thrown upon his doctrines an air of truth and 
probability, which is very apt to impose upon the unskilful. 

Dr Mandeville considers whatever is done from a sense 
of propriety, from a regard to what is commendable and 
praise-worthy, as being done from a love of praise and com¬ 
mendation, or as he calls it from vanity. Man, he observes, 
is naturally much more interested in his own happiness than 
in that of others, and it is impossible that in his heart 
he can ever really prefer their prosperity to his own. When¬ 
ever he appears to do so, we may be assured, that he impos¬ 
es upon us, and that he is then acting from the same selfish 
motives as at all other times. Among his other selfish pas¬ 
sions, vanity is one of the strongest, and he is always easily 
flattered and greatly delighted with the applauses of those 
about him. When he appears to sacrifice his own interest 
to that of his companions, he knows that this conduct will be 
highly agreeable to their self-love, and that they will not fail 


416 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


to express their satisfaction by bestowing upon him the most 
extravagant praises. The pleasure which he expects from 
this, over-balances, in his opinion, the interest which he a- 
bandons in order to procure it. His conduct, therefore, 
upon this occasion, is in reality just as selfish, and arises from 
just as mean a motive as upon any other. He is flattered, 
however, and he flatters himself with the belief that it is 
entirely disinterested; since, unless this was supposed, it 
would not seem to merit any commendation either in his 
own eyes or in those of others. All public spirit, therefore, 
all preference of public to private interest, is, according to 
him, a mere cheat and imposition upon mankind; and that 
human virtue which is so much boasted of, and which is 
the occasion of so much emulation among men, is the mere 
offspring of flattery begot upon pride. 

Whether the most generous and public-spirited actions 
may not, in some sense, be regarded as proceeding from self- 
love, I shall not at present examine. The decision of this 
question is not, I apprehend, of any importance towards esta¬ 
blishing the reality of virtue, since self-love may frequently 
be a virtuous motive of action. I shall only endeavour to 
show that the desire of doing what is honourable and noble, 
of rendering ourselves the proper objects of esteem and ap¬ 
probation, cannot with any propriety be called vanity. Even 
the love of well-grounded fame and reputation, the desire of 
acquiring esteem by what is really estimable, does not de¬ 
serve that name. The first is the love of virtue, the noblest 
and the best passion of human nature. The second is the 
love of true glory, a passion inferior no doubt to the former, 
but which in dignity appears to come immediately after it. 
He is guilty of vanity who desires praise for qualities which 
are either not praise-worthy in any degree, or not in that de¬ 
gree in which he expects to be praised for them; who sets his 
character upon the frivolous ornaments of dress and equipage, 
or upon the equally frivolous accomplishments of ordinary be¬ 
haviour. He is guilty of vanity who desires praise for what 
indeed very well deserves it, but what he perfectly knows does 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


417 


not belong to him. The empty coxcomb who gives himself 
airs of importance which he has no title to, the silly liar who 
assumes the merit of -adventures which never happened, the 
foolish plagiary who gives himself out for the author of what 
he has no pretensions to, arc properly accused of this passion. 
He too is said to be guilty of vanity who is not contented 
with the silent sentiments of esteem and approbation, who 
seems to be fonder of their noisy expressions and acclama¬ 
tions than of the sentiments themselves, who is never satis¬ 
fied but when his own praises are ringing in his ears, and 
who solicits with the most anxious importunity all external 
marks of respect, is fond of titles, of compliments, of being 
visited, of being attended, of being taken notice of in pub¬ 
lic places with the appearance of deference and attention. 
This frivolous passion is altogether different from either of 
the two former, and is the passion of the lowest and the least 
of mankind, as they are of the noblest and the greatest. 

But though these three passions, the desire of rendering 
ourselves the proper objects of honour and esteem; or of 
becoming what is honourable and estimable; the desire of 
acquiring honour and esteem by really deserving those sen¬ 
timents; and the frivolous desire of praise at any rate, are 
widely different; though the two former are always approv¬ 
ed of, while the latter never fails to be despised; there is, 
however, a certain remote affinity among them, which, ex- 
aggerated by the humorous and diverting eloquence of this 
lively author, has enabled him to impose upon his readers. 
There is an affinity between vanity and the love of true glo¬ 
ry, as both these passions aim at acquiring esteem and appro¬ 
bation. But they are different in this, that the one is a just, 
reasonable, and equitable passion, while the other is unjust, 
absurd, and ridiculous. The man who desires esteem for 
what is really estimable, desires nothing but what he is just¬ 
ly entitled to, and what cannot be refused him without some 
sort of injury. He, on the contrary, who desires it upon 
any other terms, demands what he has no just claim to. 
The first is easily satisfied, is not apt to be jealous or suspi- 

3 G• 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


448 


cious that we do not esteem him enough, and is seldom so¬ 
licitous about receiving many external marks of our regard. 
The other on the contrary, is never to be satisfied, is full of 
jealousy and suspicion that we do not esteem him so much 
as he desires, because he has some secret consciousness that 
he desires more than he deserves. The least neglect of ce¬ 
remony, he considers as a mortal affront, and as an expres¬ 
sion of the most determined contempt. He is restless and 
impatient, and perpetually afraid that we have lost all re¬ 
spect for him, and is upon this account always anxious to 
obtain new expressions of esteem, and cannot be kept in tem¬ 
per but by continual attendance and adulation. 

There is an affinity too between the desire of becoming 
what is honourable and estimable, and the desire of honour 
and esteem, between the love of virtue and the love of true 
glory. They resemble one another not only in this respect, 
that both aim at really being what is honourable and noble, 
but even in that respect, in which the love of true glory 
resembles what is properly called vanity, some reference to 
the sentiments of others. The man of the greatest magna¬ 
nimity, who desires virtue for its own sake, and is most in¬ 
different about what actually are the opinions of mankind 
with regard to him, is still, however, delighted with the 
thoughts of what they should be, with the consciousness that 
though he may neither be honoured nor applauded, he is 
still the proper object of honour and applause, and that if 
mankind, were cool and candid and consistent with them¬ 
selves, and properly informed of the motives and circum¬ 
stances of his conduct, they would not fail to honour and 
applaud him. Though he despises the opinions which are 
actually entertained of him, he has the highest value for those 
which ought to be entertained of him. That he might think 
himself worthy of those honourable sentiments, and, whatever 
was the idea which other men might conceive of his character, 
that when he should put himself in their situation, and con¬ 
sider, not what was, but what ought to be their opinion, he 
should always have the highest idea of it himself, was the 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


419 


great and exalted motive of his conduct. As even in the 
love of virtue, therefore, there is still some reference, though 
not to what is, yet to what in reason and propriety ought to 
be the opinion of others, there is even in this respect some 
affinity between it, and the love of true glory. There is 
however, at the same time, very great difference between 
them. The man who acts solely from a regard to what is 
right and fit to be done, from a regard to what is the proper 
object of esteem and approbation, though these sentiments 
should never be bestowed upon him, acts from the most su¬ 
blime and godlike motive which human nature is even ca¬ 
pable of conceiving. The man, on the other hand, who 
while he desires to merit approbation is at the same time 
anxious to obtain it, though he too is laudable in the main, 
yet his motives have a greater mixture of human infirmity. 
He is in danger of being mortified by the ignorance and in¬ 
justice of mankind, and his happiness is exposed to the envy 
of his rivals and the folly of the public, T-he happiness of 
the other, on the contrary, is altogether secure and inde¬ 
pendent of fortune, and of the caprice of those he lives with* 
The contempt and hatred which may be thrown upon him 
by the ignorance of mankind, he considers as not belong¬ 
ing to him, and is not at all mortified by it. Mankind de¬ 
spise and hate him from a false notion of his character and 
conduct. If they knew him better, they would esteem and 
love him. It is not him whom, properly speaking, they 
hate and despise, but another person whom they mistake 
him to be. Our friend, whom we should meet at a masque¬ 
rade in the garb of our enemy, would be more diverted than 
mortified, if under that disguise we should vent our indig¬ 
nation against him. Such are the sentiments of a man of 
real magnanimity, when exposed to unjust censure. It sel¬ 
dom happens, however, that human nature arrives at this 
degree of firmness. Though none but the weakest and 
most worthless of mankind are much delighted with false 
glory, yet, by a strange inconsistency, false ignomy is often 

3 G 2 


420 


OF SYSTEMS Of 


Part VII. 


Capable of mortifying those who appear the most resolute and 
determined. 

Dr Mandeville is not satisfied with representing the fri¬ 
volous motive of vanity, as the source of all those actions 
which are commonly accounted virtuous. He endeavours 
to point out the imperfection of human virtue in many other 
respects. In every case, he pretends, it falls short of that 
complete self-denial which it pretends to, and, instead of a 
conquest, is commonly no more than a concealed indulgence 
of our passions. Wherever our reserve with regard to plea¬ 
sure falls short of the most ascetic abstinence, he treats it as 
gross luxury and sensuality. Every thing, according to him, 
is luxury which exceeds what is absolutely necessary for the 
support of human nature, so that there is vice even in the 
use of a clean shirt, or of a convenient habitation. The in¬ 
dulgence of the inclination to sex, in the most lawful union, 
he considers as the same sensuality with the most hurtful 
gratification of that passion, and derides that temperance and 
that chastity which can be practised at so cheap a rate. The 
ingenious sophistry of his reasoning, is here, as upon many 
other occasions, covered by the ambiguity of language. 
There are some of our passions which have no other names 
except those which mark the disagreeable and offensive de¬ 
gree. The spectator is more apt to take notice of them in 
this degree than in any other. When they shock his own 
sentiments, when they give him some sort of antipathy and 
uneasiness, he is necessarily obliged to attend to them, and 
is from thence naturally led to give them a name. When 
they fall in with the natural state of his own mind, he is 
very apt to overlook them altogether, and either gives them 
no name at all, or, if he give them any, it is one which marks 
rather the subjection and restraint of the passion, than the 
degree which it still is allowed to subsist in, after it is so 
subjected and restrained. Thus the common names * of the 
love of pleasure, and of the love of sex, denote a vicious and 


* Luxury and lust. 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


421 


offensive degree of those passions. The words temperance 
and chastity, on the other hand, seem to mark rather the 
restraint and subjection which they are kept under, than 
the degree which they are still allowed to subsist in. When 
he can show, therefore, that they still subsist in some degree, 
he imagines, he has entirely demolished the reality of the 
virtues of temperance and chastity, and shown them to be 
mere impositions upon the inattention and simplicity of man¬ 
kind. Those virtues, however, do not require an entire in¬ 
sensibility to the objects of the passions which they mean 
to govern. They only aim at restraining the violence of 
those passions, so far as not to hurt the individual, and nei¬ 
ther disturb nor offend the society. 

It is the great fallacy of Dr Mandeville’s book * to repre¬ 
sent every passion as wholly vicious, which is so in any de¬ 
gree and in any direction. It is thus that he treats every 
thing as vanity which has any reference, either to what are, 
or to what ought to be the sentiments of others: and it is 
by means of this sophistry, that he establishes his favourite 
conclusion, that private vices are public benefits. If the love 
of magnificence, a taste for the elegant arts and improve¬ 
ments of human life, for whatever is agreeable in dress, fur¬ 
niture, or equipage, for architecture, statuary, painting, and 
music, is to be regarded as luxury, sensuality, and ostenta¬ 
tion, even in those whose situation allows, without any in- 
conveniency, the indulgence of those passions, it is certain 
that luxury, sensuality, and ostentation, are public benefits: 
since without the qualities upon which he thinks proper to 
bestow such opprobrious names, the arts of refinement could 
never find encouragement, and must languish for want of 
employment. Some popular ascetic doctrines, which had 
been current before his time, and which placed virtue in the 
entire extirpation and annihilation of all our passions, were 
the real foundation of this licentious system. It was easy 
for Dr Mandeville to prove, first, that this entire conquest 


* Fable of the Bees. 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Pan VII. 


m 


never actually took place among men, and secondly, that, if 
it was to take place universally, it would be pernicious to so¬ 
ciety, by putting an end to all industry and commerce, and 
in a manner to the whole business of human life. By the 
first of these propositions he seemed to prove that there was 
no real virtue, and that what pretended to be such, was a 
mere cheat and imposition upon mankind and by the se¬ 
cond, that private vices were public benefits, since without 
them no society could prosper or flourish. 

Such is the system of Dr Mandeville, which once made 
so much noise in the world, and which, though, perhaps, it 
never gave occasion to more vice than what would have 
been without it, at least taught that vice, which arose from 
other causes, to appear with more effrontery, and to avow 
the corruption of its motives with a profligate audaciousness, 
which had never been heard of before. 

But how destructive soever this system may appear, it 
could never have imposed upon so great a number of per¬ 
sons, nor have occasioned so general an alarm among those 
who are the friends of better principles, had it not in some 
respects bordered upon the truth. A system of natural 
philosophy may appear very plausible, and be for a long 
time very generally received in the world, and yet have no 
foundation in nature, nor any sort of resemblance to the 
truth. The vortices of Des Cartes were regarded by a very 
ingenious nation, for near a century together, as a most sa¬ 
tisfactory account of the revolutions of the heavenly bodies. 
Yet it has been demonstrated, to the conviction of all man¬ 
kind, that these pretended causes of those wonderful effects, 
not only do not actually exist, but are utterly impossible, 
and if they did exist could produce no such effects as are 
ascribed to them. But it is otherwise with systems of mo¬ 
ral philosophy, and an author who pretends to account for 
the origin of our moral sentiments, cannot deceive us so 
grossly, nor depart so very far from all resemblance to the 
truth. When a traveller gives an account of some distant 
country, he may impose upon our credulity the most ground- 


Sect. II. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


423 


less and absurd fictions as the most certain matters of fact. 
But when a person pretends to inform us of what passes in 
our neighbourhood, and of the affairs of the very parish 
which we live in, though here too, if we are so careless as 
not to examine things with our own eyes, he may deceive 
us in many respects, yet the greatest falsehoods which he 
imposes upon us must bear some resemblance to the truth, 
and must even have a considerable mixture of truth in 
them. An author who treats of natural philosophy, and 
pretends to assign the causes of the great phenomena of the 
universe, pretends to give an account of the affairs of a very 
distant country, concerning which he may tell us what he 
pleases, and as long as his narration keeps within the bounds 
of seeming possibility he need not despair of gaining our be¬ 
lief. But when he proposes to explain the origin of our de¬ 
sires and affections, of our sentiments of approbation and 
disapprobation, he pretends to give an account, not only of 
the affairs of the very parish that we live in, but of our own 
domestic concerns. Though here too, like indolent masters 
who put their trust in a steward who deceives them, we are 
very liable to be imposed upon, yet we are incapable of pas¬ 
sing any account which does not preserve some little regard 
to the truth. Some of the articles, at least, must be just, and 
even those which are most overcharged must have had some 
foundation, otherwise the fraud would be detected even by 
that careless inspection which we are disposed to give. The 
author who should assign, as the cause of any natural senti¬ 
ment, some principle which neither had any connexion with 
it, nor resembled any other principle which had some such 
connexion, would appear absurd and ridiculous to the most 
injudicious and unexperienced reader. 


424 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


SECTION III. 

OF THE DIFFERENT SYSTEMS WHICH HAVE BEEN FORMED 
CONCERNING THE PRINCIPLE OF APPROBATION. 

INTRODUCTION. 

After the inquiry concerning the nature of virtue, the 
next question of importance in Moral Philosophy is concern¬ 
ing the principle of approbation, concerning the power or 
faculty of the mind which renders certain characters agree¬ 
able or disagreeable to us, makes us prefer one tenour of 
conduct to another, denominate the one right and the other 
wrong, and consider the one as the object of approbation, 
honour, and reward; the other as that of blame, censure, 
and punishment. 

Three different accounts have been given of this princi- 
ciple of approbation. According to some, we approve and 
disapprove both of our own actions and of those of others, 
from self-love only, or from some view of their tendency to 
our own happiness or disadvantage; according to others, rea¬ 
son, the same faculty by which we distinguish between truth 
and falsehood, enables us to distinguish between what is fit 
and unfit both in actions and affections: according to others, 
this distinction is altogether the effect of immediate senti¬ 
ment and feeling, and arises from the satisfaction or disgust 
with which the view of certain actions or affections inspires 
us. Self-love, reason, and sentiment, therefore, are the 
three different sources which have been assigned for the 
principle of approbation. 

Before I proceed to give an account of those different 
systems, I must observe, that the determination of this se¬ 
cond question, though of the greatest importance in specu¬ 
lation, is of none in practice. The question concerning the 


Sect. III. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


425 


nature of virtue necessarily has some influence upon our no¬ 
tions of right and wrong in many particular cases. That 
concerning the principle of approbation can possibly have 
no such effect. To examine from what contrivance or me¬ 
chanism within, those different notions or sentiments arise, 
is a mere matter of philosophical curiosity. 


CHAPTER I. 

Of those Systems which deduce the Principle of Approbation 
from Self-Love. 

THOSE who account for the principle of approbation 
from self-love, do not all account for it in the same manner, 
and there is a good deal of confusion and inaccuracy in all 
their different systems. According to Mr Hobbes, and 
many of his followers *, man is driven to take refuge in so¬ 
ciety, not by any natural love which he bears to his own 
kind, but because without the assistance of others he is in¬ 
capable of subsisting with ease or safety. Society, upon 
this account, becomes necessary to him, and whatever tends 
to its support and welfare, he considers as having a remote 
tendency to his own interest; and, on the contrary, what¬ 
ever is likely to disturb or destroy it, he regards as in some 
measure hurtful or pernicious to himself. Virtue is the 
great support, and vice the great disturber of human society. 
The former, therefore, is agreeable, and the latter offensive 
to every man; as from the one he foresees the prosperity, 
and from the other the ruin and disorder of what is so ne¬ 
cessary for the comfort and security of his existence. 

That the tendency of virtue to promote, and of vice to 
disturb the order of society, when we consider it coolly and 


* Puffendorf, Mandeville. 

3 H 



426 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


philosophically, reflects a very great beauty upon the one, 
and a very great deformity upon the other, cannot, as I have 
observed upon a former occasion, be called in question. 
Human society, when we contemplate it in a certain abstract 
and philosophical light, appears like a great, an immense 
machine, whose regular and harmonious movements produce 
a thousand agreeable effects. As in any other beautiful and 
noble machine that was the production of human art, what¬ 
ever tended to render its movements more smooth and easy, 
would derive a beauty from this effect, and, on the contra¬ 
ry, whatever tended to obstruct them would displease upon 
that account: so virtue, which is, as it were, the fine polish 
to the wheels of society, necessarily pleases; while vice, 
like the vile rust, which makes them jar and grate upon 
one another, is as necessarily offensive. This account, there¬ 
fore, of the origin of approbation and disapprobation, so 
far as it derives them from a regard to the order of soci¬ 
ety, runs into that principle which gives beauty to utility, 
and which I have explained upon a former occasion; and 
it is from thence, that this system derives all that appear¬ 
ance of probability which it possesses. When those authors 
describe the innumerable advantages of a cultivated and so¬ 
cial, above a savage and solitary life; when they expatiate 
upon the necessity of virtue and good order for the mainte¬ 
nance of the one, and demonstrate how infallibly the preva¬ 
lence of vice and disobedience to the laws tend to bring back 
the other, the reader is charmed with the novelty and gran¬ 
deur of those views which they open to him: he sees plain¬ 
ly a new beauty in virtue, and a new deformity in vice, 
which he had never taken notice of before, and is com¬ 
monly so delighted with the discovery, that he seldom 
takes time to reflect, that this political view having never oc¬ 
curred to him in his life before, cannot possibly be the 
ground of that approbation and disapprobation with which 
he has always been accustomed to consider those different 
qualities. 

When those authors, on the other hand, deduce from 


Sect. III. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


427 


self-love the interest which we take in the welfare of society, 
and the esteem which upon that account we bestow upon vir¬ 
tue, they do not mean, that when we in this age applaud the 
virtue of Cato, and detest the villany of Catiline, our senti¬ 
ments are influenced by the notion of any benefit we receive 
from the one, or of any detriment we suffer from the other. 
It was not becausejthe prosperity or subversion of society, in 
those remote ages and nations, was apprehended to have any 
influence upon our happiness or misery in the present times; 
that according to those philosophers, we esteemed the virtu¬ 
ous, and blamed the disorderly character. They never ima¬ 
gined that our sentiments were influenced by any benefit or 
damage which we supposed actually to redound to us, from 
either; but by that which might have redounded to us, had 
we lived in those distant ages and countries; or by that which 
might still redound to us, if in our own times we should meet 
with characters of the same kind. The idea, in short, which 
those authors were groping about, but which they were 
never able to unfold distinctly, was that indirect sympathy 
which we feel with the gratitude or resentment of those who 
received the benefit or suffered the damage resulting from 
such opposite characters: and it was this which they were 
indistinctly pointing at, when they said, that it was not the 
thought of what we had gained or suffered which prompted 
our applause or indignation, but the conception or imagina¬ 
tion of what we might gain or suffer if we were to act in so- 
ciety with such associates. 

Sympathy, however, cannot in any sense, be regarded as 
a selfish principle. When I sympathize with your sorrow or 
your indignation, it may be pretended, indeed, that my emo¬ 
tion is founded in self-love, because it arises from bringing 
your case home to myself, from putting myself in your situation, 
and thence conceiving what I should feel in the like circum¬ 
stances. But though sympathy is very properly said to arise 
from an imaginary change of situations with the person prin¬ 
cipally concerned, yet this imaginary change is not supposed 
to happen to me in my own person and character, but in that 

3 h. 2 


428 


OF SYSTEMS OP 


Part VII. 


of the person with whom I sympathize. When I condole 
with you for the loss of your only son, in order to enter into 
your grief, I do not consider what I, a person of such a char¬ 
acter and profession, should suffer, if I had a son, and if that 
son was unfortunately to die: but I consider what I should 
suffer if I was really you, and I not only change circumstances 
with you, but I change persons and characters. My grief, 
therefore, is entirely upon your account, and not in the least 
upon my own. It is not, therefore, in the least selfish. How 
can that be regarded as a selfish passion, which does not arise 
even from the imagination of any thing that has befallen, or 
that relates to myself, in my own proper person and character, 
but which is entirely occupied about what relates to you? A 
man may sympathize with a woman in child-bed; though it 
is impossible that he should conceive himself as suffering her 
pains in his own proper person and character. That whole 
account of human nature, however, which deduces all senti¬ 
ments and affections from self-love, which has made so much 
noise in the world, but which, so far as I know, has never 
yet been fully and distinctly explained, seems to me to have 
arisen from some confused misapprehension of the system of 
sympathy. 


—- 

CHAPTER II. 

Of those Systems which make lieason the Principle of 
Approbation. 

IT is well known to have been the doctrine of Mr Hobbes, 
that a state of nature is a state of war; and that antecedent 
to the institution of civil government, there could be no safe 
or peaceable society among men. To preserve society, there¬ 
fore, according to him, was to support civil government, and 
to destroy civil government was the same thing as to put an 
end to society. But the existence of civil government de- 


Sect. III. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


429 


pends upon the obedience that is paid to the supreme magis¬ 
trate. The moment he loses his authority, all government 
is at an end. As self-preservation, therefore, teaches men 
to applaud whatever tends to promote the welfare of society, 
and to blame whatever is likely to hurt it; so the same prin¬ 
ciple, if they would think and speak consistently, ought to 
teach them to applaud upon all occasions obedience to the 
civil magistrate, and to blame all disobedience and rebellion. 
The very ideas of laudable and blameable, ought to be the 
same with those of obedience and disobedience. The laws 
of the civil magistrate, therefore, ought to be regarded as 
the sole ultimate standards of what was just and unjust, of 
what was right and wrong. 

It was the avowed intention of Mr Hobbes, by propagat¬ 
ing these notions, to subject the consciences of men immedi¬ 
ately to the civil, and not to the ecclesiastical powers, whose 
turbulence and ambition, he had been taught, by the example 
of his own times, to regard as the principle source of the 
disorders of society. His doctrine, upon this account, was 
peculiarly offensive to theologians, who accordingly did not 
fail to vent their indignation against him with great asperity 
and bitterness. It was likewise offensive to all sound moral¬ 
ists, as it supposed that there was no natural distinction be¬ 
tween right and wrong, that these were mutual and changea¬ 
ble, and depended upon the mere arbitrary will of the civil 
magistrate. This account of things, therefore, was attacked 
from all quarters and by all sorts of weapons, by sober reason 
as well as by furious declamation. 

In order to confute so odious a doctrine, it was necessary 
to prove, that antecedent to all law or positive institution, 
the mind was naturally endowed with a faculty, by which it 
distinguished in certain actions and affections, the qualities 
of right, laudable, and virtuous, and in others those of wrong, 
blameable, and vicious. 

Law, it was justly observed by Dr Cudworth*, could not 


Immutable Morality, 1. i. 


430 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Pan VIL 


be the original source of those distinctions; since, upon the 
supposition of such a law, it must either be right to obey it, 
and wrong to disobey it, or indifferent whether we obeyed 
it, or disobeyed it. That law which it was indifferent whe¬ 
ther we obeyed or disobeyed, could not, it was evident, be 
the source of those distinctions; neither could that which it 
was right to obey and wrong to disobey, since even this still 
supposed the antecedent notions or ideas of right and wrong, 
and that obedience to the law was conformable to the idea 
of right, and disobedience to that of wrong. 

Since the mind, therefore, had a notion of those distinc¬ 
tions, antecedent to all law, it seemed necessarily to follow, 
that it derived this notion from reason, which pointed out 
the difference between right and wrong, in the same manner 
in which it did that between truth and falsehood: and this 
conclusion, which, though true in some respects, is rather 
hasty in others, was more easily received at a time when the 
abstract science of human nature was but in its infancy, and 
before the distinct offices and powers of the different facul¬ 
ties of the human mind had been carefully examined and 
distinguished from one another. When this controversy 
with Mr Hobbes was carried on with the greatest warmth 
and keenness, no other faculty had been thought of from 
which any such ideas could possibly be supposed to arise.. 
It became at this time, therefore, the popular doctrine, that 
the essence of virtue and vice did not consist in the confor¬ 
mity or disagreement of human actions with the law of a su¬ 
perior, but in their conformity or disagreement which reason, 
which was thus considered as the original source and princi¬ 
ple of approbation and disapprobation. 

That virtue consists in conformity to reason, is true in 
some respects, and this faculty may very justly be considered 
as, in some sense, the source and principle of approbation 
and disapprobation, and of all solid judgments concerning 
right and wrong. It is by reason that we discover those ge¬ 
neral rules of justice by which we ought to regulate our ac¬ 
tions : and it is by the same faculty that we form those more 


Sect. III. 


MORAL philosophy. 


431 


vague and determinate ideas of what was prudent, of what 
is decent, of what is generous or nobie, which we carry con- 
stantly about with us, and according to which we endeavour, 
as well as we can, to model the tenor of our conduct. The 
general maxims of morality are formed, like all other gener¬ 
al maxims, from experience and induction. We observe in 
a great variety of particular cases what pleases or displeases 
our moral faculties, what these approve or disapprove of, and, 
by induction from this experience, we establish those general 
rules. But induction is always regarded as one of the oper¬ 
ations of reason. From reason, therefore, we are very pro¬ 
perly said to derive all those general maxims and ideas. It 
is by these, however, that we regulate the greater part of 
our moral judgments, which would be extremely uncertain 
and precarious if they depended altogether upon what is li¬ 
able to so many variations as immediate sentiment and feel¬ 
ing, which the different states of health and humour are ca¬ 
pable of altering so essentially. As our most solid judgments, 
therefore, with regard to right and wrong, are regulated by 
maxims and ideas derived from an induction of reason, vir¬ 
tue may very properly be said to consist in a conformity to 
reason, and so far this faculty may be considered as the source 
and principle of approbation and disapprobation. 

But though reason is undoubtedly the scource of the ge¬ 
neral rules of morality, and of all the moral judgments which 
we form by means of them; it is altogether absurd and un¬ 
intelligible to suppose that the first perceptions of right and 
wrong can be derived from reason, even in those particular 
cases upon the experience of which the general rules are 
formed. These first perceptions, as well as all other experi¬ 
ments upon which any general rules are founded, cannot be the 
object of reason but of immediate sense and feeling. It is by 
finding in a vast variety of instances that one tenor of con¬ 
duct constantly pleases in a certain manner, and that another 
as constantly displeases the mind, that we form the general 
rules of morality. But reason cannot render any particular 
object either agreeable or disagreeable to the mind for its own 


432 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


sake. Reason may show that this object is the means of ob¬ 
taining some other which is naturally either pleasing or dis¬ 
pleasing, and in this manner may render it either agreeable 
or disagreeable for the sake of something else. But nothing 
can be agreeable or disagreeable for its own sake, which is 
not rendered such by immediate sense and feeling. If virtue, 
therefore, in every particular instance, necessarily pleases for 
its own sake, and if vice as certainly displeases the mind, it 
cannot be reason, but immediate sense and feeling, which, in 
this manner, reconciles us to the one, and alienates us from 
the other. 

Pleasure and pain are the great objects of desire and a- 
version: but these are distinguished not by reason, but by 
immediate sense and feeling. If virtue, therefore, be desira¬ 
ble for its own sake, and if vice be, in the same manner, the 
object of aversion, it cannot be reason which originally dis¬ 
tinguishes those different qualities, but immediate sense and 
feeling. 

As reason, however, in a certain sense, may justly be con¬ 
sidered as the principle of approbation and disapprobation, 
these sentiments were, through inattention, long regarded as 
originally flowing from the operations of this faculty. Dr 
Hutcheson had the merit of being the first who distinguished 
with any degree of precision in what respect all moral dis¬ 
tinctions may be said to arise from reason, and in what re¬ 
spect they are founded upon immediate sense and feeling. 
In his illustrations upon the moral sense, he has explained 
this so fully, and, in my opinion, so unanswerably, that if 
any controversy is still kept up about this subject, I can im¬ 
pute it to nothing, but either to inattention to what that gen¬ 
tleman has written, or to a superstitious attachment to cer¬ 
tain forms of expression, a weakness not very uncommon a- 
mong the learned, especially in subjects so deeply interesting 
as the present, in which a man of virtue is often loath to a- 
bandon, even the propriety of a single phrase which he has 
been accustomed to. 


Sect. III. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


433 


CHAPTER HI, 

Of those Systems which make Sentiment the Principle of 
Approbation . 

THOSE systems which make sentiment the principle of 
approbation may be divided into two different classes. 

I. According to some, the principle of approbation is 
founded upon a sentiment of a peculiar nature, upon a par¬ 
ticular power of perception exerted by the mind at the view 
of certain actions or affections; some of which affecting this 
faculty in an agreeable and others in a disagreeable man¬ 
ner, the former are stamped with the characters of right, 
laudable, and virtuous; the latter with those of wrong, blame- 
able, and vicious. This sentiment being of a peculiar nature 
distinct from every other, and the effect of a particular power 
of perception, they give it a particular name, and call it a 
moral sense . 

II. According to others, in order to account for the prin¬ 
ciple of approbation, there is no occasion for supposing any 
new power of perception which had never been heard of be¬ 
fore: Nature, they imagine, acts here, as in all other cases, 
with the strictest ceconomy, and produces a multitude of 
effects from one and the same cause; and sympathy, a power 
which has always been taken notice of, and with which the 
mind is manifestly endowed, is, they think, sufficient to ac¬ 
count for all the effects ascribed to this peculiar faculty. 

I. Dr Hutcheson* had been at great pains to prove that 
the principle of approbation was not founded on self-love. 
He had demonstrated too, that it could not arise from any 
operation of reason. Nothing remained, he thought, but to 
suppose it a faculty of a peculiar kind, with which Nature 
had endowed the human mind, in order to produce this one 

* Inquiry concerning Virtue. 

3 I 


434 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


particular and important effect. When self-love and reason 
were both excluded, it did not occur to him that there was 
any other known faculty of the mind which could in any re¬ 
spect answer this purpose. 

This new power of perception he called a moral sense, 
and supposed it to be somewhat analogous to the external 
senses. As the bodies around us, by effecting these in a 
certain manner, appear to possess the different qualities of 
sound, taste, odour, colour; so the various affections of the 
human mind, by touching this particular faculty in a certain 
manner, appear to possess the different qualities o£ amiable 
and odious, of virtuous and vicious, of right and wrong. 

The various senses or powers of perception*, from which 
the human mind derives all its simple ideas, were, according 
to this system, of two different kinds, of which the one were 
called the direct or antecedent, the other, the reflex or con¬ 
sequent senses. The direct senses were those faculties from 
which the mind derived the perception of such species of 
things as did not presuppose the antecedent perception of any 
other. Thus sounds and colours were objects of the direct 
senses. To hear a sound or to see a colour does not presup¬ 
pose the antecedent perception of any other quality or object. 
The reflex or consequent senses on the other hand, were 
those faculties from which the mind derived the perception 
of such species of things as presupposed the antecedent per¬ 
ception of some other. Thus harmony and beauty were ob¬ 
jects of the reflex senses. In order to perceive the harmony 
of a sound, or the beauty of a colour, we must first perceive 
the sound or the colour. The moral sense was considered 
as a faculty of this kind. That faculty which Mr Locke calls 
reflection, and from which he derived the simple ideas of the 
different passions and emotions of the human mind, was, ac¬ 
cording to Dr Hutcheson, a direct internal sense. That fa¬ 
culty again by which we perceived the beauty or deformity, 


* Treatise of the Passions. 


Sect. III. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


435 


the virtue or vice of those different passions or emotions, was 
a reflex, internal sense. 

Dr Hutcheson endeavoured still farther to support this 
doctrine, by showing that it was agreeable to the analogy of 
nature, and that the mind was endowed with a variety of 
other reflex senses exactly similiar to the moral sense; such 
as a sense of beauty and deformity in external objects; a 
public sense, by which we sympathize with the happiness 
or misery of our fellow creatures; a sense of shame and hon¬ 
our, and a sense of ridicule. 

But notwithstanding all the pains which this ingenious 
philosopher has taken to prove that the principle of approba¬ 
tion is founded in a peculiar power of perception, somewhat 
analogous to the external senses, there are some consequences 
which he acknowledges to follow from this doctrine, that 
will, perhaps, be regarded by many as a sufficient confutation 
of it. The qualities, he allows*, which belong to the objects 
of any sense, cannot, without the greatest absurdity be as¬ 
cribed to the sense itself. Who ever thought of calling the 
sense of seeing black or white, the sense of hearing loud or 
low, or the sense of tasting sweet or bitter? And, according 
to him, it is equally absurd to call our moral faculties virtu¬ 
ous or vicious, morally good or evil. These qualities belong 
to the objects of those faculties, not to the faculties them¬ 
selves. If any man, therefore, was so absurdly constituted 
as to approve of cruelty and injustice as the highest virtues, 
and to disapprove of equity and humanity as the most pitiful 
vices, such a constitution of mind might indeed be regarded 
as inconvenient both to the individual and to the society, and 
likewise as strange, surprising, and unnatural in itself; but it 
could not, without the greatest absurdity, be denominated 
vicious or morally evil. 

Yet surely if we saw any man shouting with admiration 
and applause at a barbarous and unmerited execution, which 
some insolent tyrant had ordered, we should not think we 

* Illustrations upon the Moral Sense, sect. i. p. 237, et seq.; third edition* 

3 i 2 


436 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


were guilty of any great absurdity in denominating this be¬ 
haviour vicious and morally evil in the highest degree, though 
it expressed nothing but depraved moral faculties, or an ab¬ 
surd approbation of this horrid action, as of what was noble, 
magnanimous, and great. Our heart I imagine, at the sight 
of such a spectator, would forget for a while its sympathy 
with the sufferer, and feel nothing but horror and detestation, 
at the thought of so execrable a wretch. We should abo¬ 
minate him even more than the tyrant who might be goaded 
on by the strong passions of jealousy, fear, and resentment, 
and upon that account be more excusable. But the sentiments 
of the spectator would appear altogether without cause or 
motive, and therefore most perfectly and completely detesta • 
ble. There is no perversion of sentiment or affection which 
our heart would be more averse to enter into, or which it 
would reject with greater hatred and indignation than one 
of this kind; and so far from regarding such a constitution 
of mind as being merely something strange or inconvenient, 
and not in any respect vicious or morally evil, we should ra¬ 
ther consider it as the very last and most dreadful stage of 
moral depravity. 

Correct moral sentiments, on the contrary, naturally ap¬ 
pear in some degree laudable and morally good. The man, 
whose censure and applause are upon all occasions suited with 
the greatest accuracy to the value or unworthiness of the ob¬ 
ject, seems to deserve a degree even of moral approbation. 
We admire the delicate precision of his moral sentiments: 
they lead our own judgments, and, upon account of their un¬ 
common and surprising justness, they even excite our wonder 
and applause. We cannot indeed be always sure that the 
conduct of such a person would be in any respect correspon¬ 
dent to the precision and accuracy of his judgments concern¬ 
ing the conduct of others. Virtue requires habit and resolu¬ 
tion of mind, as well as delicacy of sentiment; and unfortu¬ 
nately the former qualities are sometimes wanting, where 
the latter is in the greatest perfection. This disposition of 
mind, however, though it may sometimes be attended with 


Sect. III. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


437 


imperfections, is incompatible with any thing that is grossly 
criminal, and is the happiest foundation upon which the su¬ 
perstructure of perfect virtue can be built. There are manv 
men who mean very well, and seriously purpose to do what 
they think their duty, who, notwithstanding are disagreeable 
on account of the coarseness of their moral sentiments. 

It may be said, perhaps, that though the principle of ap¬ 
probation is not founded upon any power of perception that 
is in any respect analogous to the external senses, it may still 
be founded upon a peculiar sentiment which answers this one 
particular purpose and no other. Approbation and disappro¬ 
bation, it may be pretended, are certain feelings or emotions 
which arise in the mind upon the view of different characters 
and actions; and as resentment might be called a sense of in¬ 
juries, or gratitude a sense of benefits, so these may very pro¬ 
perly receive the name of a sense of right and wrong, or of a 
moral sense. 

But this account of things, though it may not be liable to 
the same objections with the foregoing, is exposed to others 
which are equally unanswerable. 

First of all, whatever variations any particular emotion 
may undergo, it still preserves the general features which 
distinguish it to be an emotion of such a kind, and these ge¬ 
neral features are always more striking and remarkable than 
any variation which it may undergo in particular cases. Thus 
anger is an emotion of a particular kind: and accordingly 
its general features are always more distinguishable than all 
the variations it undergoes in particular cases. Anger against 
a man is, no doubt, somewhat different from anger against a 
woman, and that again from anger against a child. In each 
of those three cases, the general passion of anger receives a 
different modification from the particular character of its ob¬ 
ject, as may easily be observed by the attentive. But still 
the general features of the passion predominate in all these 
cases. To distinguish these, requires no nice observation: 
a very delicate attention, on the contrary, is necessary to dis¬ 
cover their variations, every body takes notice of the former; 


438 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part Vir. 


scarce any body observes the latter. If approbation and dis¬ 
approbation, therefore, were like gratitude and resentment, 
emotions of a particular kind, distinct from every other, we 
should expect that in all the variations which either of them 
might undergo, it would still retain the general features which 
mark it to be an emotion of such a particular kind, clear, 
plain, and easily distinguishable. But in fact it happens 
quite otherwise. If we attend to what we really feel when 
upon different occasions we either approve or disapprove, 
we shall find that our emotion in one case is often totally 
different from that in another, and that no common features 
can possibly be discovered between them. Thus the appro¬ 
bation with which we view a tender, delicate, and humane 
sentiment, is quite different from that with which we are 
struck by one that appears great, daring, and magnanimous. 
Our approbation of both may, upon different occasions, be per¬ 
fect and entire; but we are softened by the one, and we are 
elevated by the other, and there is no sort of resemblance be¬ 
tween the emotions which they excite in us. But according 
to that system which I have been endeavouring to establish, 
this must necessarily be the case. As the emotions of the 
person whom we approve of, are, in those two cases, quite 
opposite to one another, and as our approbation arises from 
sympathy with those opposite emotions, what we feel upon 
the one occasion, can have no sort of resemblance to what 
we feel upon the other. But this could not happen if appro¬ 
bation consisted in a peculiar emotion which had nothing 
in common with the sentiments we approved of, but which 
arose at the view of those sentiments, like any other passion 
at the view of its proper object. The same thing holds true 
with regard to disapprobation. Our horror for cruelty has no 
sort of resemblance to our contempt for mean-spiritedness. 
It is quite a different species of discord which we feel at the 
view of those two different vices, between our own minds 
and those of the person whose sentiments and behaviour we 
consider. 

Secondly, I have already observed, that not only the dir- 


Sect. III. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


439 


ferent passions or affections of the human mind which are 
approved or disapproved of, appear morally good or evil, 
but that proper and improper approbation appear to our na¬ 
tural sentiments, to be stamped with the same characters. 

I would ask, therefore, how it is, that, according to this sys¬ 
tem we approve or disapprove of proper or improper appro¬ 
bation? To this question there is, I imagine, but one rea¬ 
sonable answer, whifch can possibly be given. It must be 
said, that when the approbation with which our neighbour 
regards the conduct of a third person coincides with our own, 
we approve of his approbation, and consider it as, in some 
measure, morally good; and that on the contrary, when it 
does not coincide with our own sentiments, we disapprove of 
it, and consider it as, in some measure, morally evil. It must 
be allowed, therefore, that, at least in this one case, the co¬ 
incidence or opposition of sentiments, between the observer 
and the person observed, constitutes moral approbation or 
disapprobation. And if it does so in this one case, I would 
ask, why not in every other? to what purpose imagine a 
new power of perception in order to account for those senti¬ 
ments ? 

Against every account of the principle of approbation, 
which makes it depend upon a peculiar sentiment, distinct 
from every other, I would object; that it is strange that this 
sentiment, which Providence undoubtedly intended to be the 
governing principle of human nature, should hitherto have 
been so little taken notice of, as not to have got a name in 
any language. The word moral sense is of very late forma¬ 
tion, and cannot yet be considered as making part of the Eng¬ 
lish tongue. The word approbation has but within these 
few years been appropriated to denote peculiarly any thing 
of this kind. In propriety of language we approve of what¬ 
ever is entirely to our satisfaction, of the form of a building, 
of the contrivance of a machine, of the flavour of a dish of 
meat. The word conscience does not immediately denote 
any moral faculty by which we approve or disapprove. Con¬ 
science supposes, indeed, the existence of some such faculty, 


440 


OP SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


and properly signifies our consciousness of having acted agree¬ 
ably or contrary to its directions. When love, hatred, joy, 
sorrow, gratitude, resentment, with so many other passions 
which are all supposed to be the subjects of this principle, 
have made themselves considerable enough to get titles to 
know them by, is it not surprising that the sovereign of them 
all should hitherto have been so little heeded, that a few 
philosophers excepted, nobody has yet thought it worth while 
to bestow a name upon it? 

When we approve of any character or action, the senti¬ 
ments which we feel are, according to the foregoing system, 
derived from four sources, which are in some respects dif¬ 
ferent from one another. First, we sympathize with the mo¬ 
tives of the agent; secondly, we inter into the gratitude of 
those who receive the benefit of his actions; thirdly, we ob¬ 
serve that his conduct has been agreeable to the general rules 
by which those two sympathies generally act; and, last of 
all, when we consider such actions as making a part of a sys¬ 
tem of behaviour which tends to promote the happiness ei¬ 
ther of the individual or of the society, they appear to derive 
a beauty from this utility, not unlike that which we ascribe 
to any well-contrived machine. After deducting, in any 
one particular case, all that must be acknowledged to pro¬ 
ceed from some one or other of these four principles, I should 
be glad to know what remains, and I shall freely allow this 
overpluss to be ascribed to a moral sense, or to any other pe¬ 
culiar faculty, provided any body will ascertain precisely what 
this overplus is. It might be expected, perhaps, that if there 
was any such peculiar principle, such as this moral sense is 
supposed to be, we should feel it, in some particular cases, 
separated and detached from every other, as we often feel 
joy, sorrow, hope, and fear, pure and unmixed with any other 
emotion. This however, I imagine, cannot even be pretend¬ 
ed. I have never heard any instance alleged in which this 
principle could be said to exert itself alone and unmixed with 
sympathy or antipathy, with gratitude or resentment, with the 
perception of the agreement or disagreement of any action 


Sect. III. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


441 


to an established rule, or last of all, with that general taste 
for beauty and order, which is excited by inanimated as well 
as by animated objects. 

II. There is another system which attempts to account for 
the origin of our moral sentiments from sympathy, distinct 
from that which I have been endeavouring to establish. It 
is that which places virtue in utility, and accounts for the 
pleasure with which the spectator surveys the utility of any 
quality from sympathy with the happiness of those who are 
affected by it. This sympathy is different both from that 
by which we enter into the motives of the agent, and from 
that by which we go along with the gratitude of the persons 
who are benefited by his actions. It is the same principle 
with that by which we approve of a well-contrived machine. 
But no machine can be the object of either of those two last 
mentioned sympathies. I have already, in the fourth part of 
this discourse, given some account of this system. 


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Part VII. 


SECTION IV. 


OF THE MANNER IN WHICH DIFFERENT AUTHORS HAVE TREATED 
OF THE PRACTICAL RULES OF MORALITY. 


It was observed in the third part of this discourse, that the 
rules of justice are the only rules of morality which are pre¬ 
cise and accurate; that those of all the other virtues are 
loose, vague, and indeterminate; that the first may be com¬ 
pared to the rules of grammar; the others to those which 
critics lay down for the attainment of what is sublime and 
elegant in composition, and which present us rather with a 
general idea of the perfection we ought to aim at, than af¬ 
ford us any certain and infallible directions for acquiring it. 

As the different rules of morality admit such different de¬ 
grees of accuracy, those authors who have endeavoured to 
collect and digest them into systems have done it in two dif¬ 
ferent manners; and one set has followed through the whole 
that loose method to which they were naturally directed by 
the consideration of one species of virtues; while another has 
as universally endeavoured to introduce into their precepts 
that sort of accuracy of which only some of them are suscep¬ 
tible. The first have wrote like critics, the second like gram¬ 
marians. 

I. The first, among whom we may count all the ancient 
moralists, have contented themselves with describing in a 
general manner the different vices and virtues, and with 
pointing out the deformity and misery of the one disposition 
as well as the propriety and happiness of the other, but have 
not affected to lay down many precise rules that are to hold 
good unexceptionably in all particular cases. They have on¬ 
ly endeavoured to ascertain, as far as language is capable of 
ascertaining, first, wherein consists the sentiment of the heart, 


Sect. IV. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


443 


upon which each particular virtue is founded, what sort of 
internal feeling or emotion it is which constitutes the essence 
of friendship, of humanity, of generosity, of justice, of mag¬ 
nanimity, and of all the other virtues, as well as of the vices 
which are opposed to them: and secondly, what is the general 
way of acting, the ordinary tone and tenor of conduct to which 
each of those sentiments would direct us, or how it is that 
a friendly, a generous, a brave, a just, and a humane man,, 
would upon ordinary occasions, choose to act. 

To characterize the sentiment of the heart, upon which 
each particular virtue is founded, though it requires both a 
delicate and an accurate pencil, is a,task, however, which 
may be executed with some degree of exactness. It is im¬ 
possible, indeed, to express all the variations which each sen¬ 
timent either does or ought to undergo, according to every 
possible variation of circumstances. They, are endless, and 
language wants names to mark them by. The sentiment of 
friendship, for example, which we feel for an old man is dif¬ 
ferent from that which we feel for a young: that which we 
entertain for an austere man different from that which we 
feel for one of softer and gentler manners: and that again 
from what we feel for one of gay vivacity and spirit. The 
friendship which we conceive for a man is different from that 
with which a woman affects us, even where there is no n>ix- 
ture of any grosser passion. What author could enumerate 
and ascertain these and all the other infinite varieties which 
this sentiment is capable of undergoing? But still the general 
sentiment of friendship and familiar attachment which is com¬ 
mon to them all. may be ascertained with a sufficient degree 
of accuracy. The picture which is drawn of it, though it 
will always be in many respects incomplete, may however, 
have such a resemblance as to make us know the original 
when we meet with it, and even distinguish it from other 
sentiments to which it has a considerable resemblance, such 
as good-will, respect, esteem, admiration. 

To describe, in a general manner, what is the ordinary 
way of acting to which each virtue would prompt us, is still 

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more easy. It is indeed, scarce possible to describe the inter¬ 
nal sentiment or emotion upon which it is founded, without 
doing something of this kind. It is impossible by language 
to express, if I may say so, the invisible features of all the 
different modifications of passions as they show themselves 
within. There is no other way of marking and distinguish¬ 
ing them from one another, but by describing the effects 
which they produce without, the alterations which they oc¬ 
casion in the countenance, in the air and external behaviour, 
the resolutions they suggest, the actions they prompt to. It 
is thus that Cicero, in the first book of his Offices, endeav¬ 
ours to direct us to th$ practice of the four cardinal virtues, 
and that Aristotle in the practical parts of his Ethics, points 
out to us the different habits by which he would have us re¬ 
gulate our behaviour, such as liberality, magnificence, mag- 
nanimity, and even jocularity and good-humour, qualities 
which that indulgent philosopher has thought worthy of a 
place in the catalogue of the virtues, though the lightness 
of that approbation which we naturally bestow upon them, 
should not seem to entitle them to so venerable a name. 

Such works present us with agreeable and lively pictures 
of manners. By the vivacity of their descriptions they in¬ 
flame. our natural love of virtue, and increase our abhorrence 
of vice: by the justness as well as delicacy of their observa¬ 
tions they may often help both to correct and to ascertain our 
natural sentiments with regard to the propriety of conduct, 
and suggesting many nice and delicate attentions, form us to 
a more exact justness of behaviour, than what, without such 
instruction, we should have been apt to think of. In treating 
of the rules of morality, in this manner, consists the science 
which is properly called Ethics, a science which, though like 
criticism it does not admit of the most accurate precision, is, 
however, both highly useful and agreeable. It is of all others 
the most susceptible of the embellishments of eloquence, and 
by means of them of bestowing, if that be possible, a new 
importance upon the smallest rules of duty. Its precepts, 
when thus dressed and adorned, are capable of producing 


Sect. IV. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


445 


upon the flexibility of youth, the noblest and most lasting im¬ 
pressions, and as they fall in with the natural magnanimity 
of that generous age, they are able to inspire, for a time at 
least, the more heroic resolutions, and thus tend both to esta¬ 
blish and confirm the best and most useful habits of which 
the mind of man is susceptible. Whatever precept and ex¬ 
hortation can do to animate us to the practice of virtue, is 
done by this science delivered in this manner. 

II. The second set of moralists, among whom we may 
count all the casuists of the middle and latter ages of the 
Christian church, as well as all those who in this and in the 
preceding century have treated of what is called natural ju¬ 
risprudence, do not content themselves with characterizing 
in this general manner that tenor of conduct which they 
would recommend to us, but endeavour to lay down exact 
and precise rules for the direction of every circumstance of 
our behaviour. As justice is the only virtue with regard to 
which such exact rules can properly be given; it is this vir¬ 
tue that has chiefly fallen under the consideration of those 
two different sets of writers. They treat of it, however, in a 
very different manner. 

Those who write upon the principles of jurisprudence, 
consider only what the person to whom the obligation is due, 
ought to think himself entitled to exact by force; what every 
impartial spectator would approve of him for exacting, or 
what a judge or arbiter, to whom he had submitted his case, 
and who had undertaken to do him justice, ought to oblige 
the other person to suffer or to perform. The casuists, on 
the other hand, do not so much examine what it is, that 
might properly be exacted by force, as what it is, that the 
person who owes the obligation ought to think himself 
bound to perform from the most sacred and scrupulous re¬ 
gard to the general rules of justice, and from the most con¬ 
scientious dread, either of wronging his neighbour, or of vio¬ 
lating the integrity of his own character. It is tne end of 
jurisprudence to prescribe rules for the decisions of judges 
and arbiters. It is the end of casuistry to prescribe rules for 


44-t> 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


the conduct of a good man. By observing all the rules of 
jurisprudence, supposing them ever so perfect, we should de¬ 
serve nothing but to be free from external punishment. By 
observing those of casuistry, supposing them such as they 
ought to be, we should be entitled to considerable praise by 
the exact and scrupulous delicacy of our behaviour. 

It may frequently happen that a good man ought to think 
himself bound, from a sacred and conscientious regard to the 
general rules of justice, to perform many things which it 
would be the highest injustice to extort from him, or for any 
judge or arbiter to impose upon him by force. To give a 
trite example: a highwayman, by the fear of death, obliges 
a traveller to promise him a certain sum of money. Whether 
such a promise, extorted in this manner by unjust force, 
ought to be regarded as obligatory, is a question that has 
been very much debated. 

If we consider it merely as a question of jurisprudence* 
the decision can admit of no doubt. It would be absurd to 
suppose that the highwayman can be entitled to use force to 
constrain the other to perform. To extort the promise was 
a crime which deserved the highest punishment, and to ex¬ 
tort the performance would only be adding a new crime to 
the former. He can complain of no injury who has been 
only deceived by the person by whom he might justly have 
been killed. To suppose that a judge ought to enforce the 
obligation of such promises, or that the magistrate ought to 
allow them to sustain action at law, would be the most ri¬ 
diculous of all absurdities. If we consider this question, there 
fore, as a question of jurisprudence, we can be at no loss about 
the decision. 

But if we consider it as a question of casuistry, it will not 
be so easily determined. Whether a good man, from a con¬ 
scientious regard to that most sacred rule of justice, which 
commands the observance of all serious promises, would not 
think himself bound to perform, is at least much more doubt¬ 
ful. That no regard is due to the disappointment of the 
wretch who brings him into this situation, that no injury is 


Sect. IV. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


447 


done to the robber, and consequently that nothing can be 
extorted by force, will admit of no sort of dispute. But whe¬ 
ther some regard is not, in this case, due to his own dignity 
and honour, to the inviolable sacredness of that part of his 
character which makes him reverence the law of truth, and 
abhor every thing that approaches to treachery and falsehood, 
may, perhaps, more reasonably be made a question. The 
casuists accordingly are greatly divided about it. One party 
with whom we may count Cicero among the ancients, among 
the moderns, Puffendorf, Barbeyrac his commentator, and 
above all, the late Dr Hutcheson, one who in most cases was 
by no means a loose casuist, determine, without any hesita¬ 
tion, that no sort of regard is due to any such promise, and 
that to think otherwise is mere weakness and superstition. 
Another party, among whom we may reckon* some of the 
ancient fathers of the church, as well as some very eminent 
modern casuists, have been of another opinion, and have 
judged all such promises obligatory. 

If we consider the matter according to the common senti¬ 
ments of mankind, we shall find that some regard would be 
thought due even to a promise of this kind*, but that it is 
impossible to determine how much, by any general rule, that 
will imply to all cases without exception. The man who was 
quite frank and easy in making promises of this kind, and who 
violated them with as little ceremony, we should not choose 
for our friend and companion. A gentleman who should 
promise a highwayman five pounds and not perform, would 
incur some blame. If the sum promised, however, was very 
great, it might be more doubtful what was proper to be done. 
If it was such, for example, that the payment of it would en¬ 
tirely ruin the family of the promiser, if it was so great as to 
be sufficient for promoting the most useful purposes, it would 
appear in some measure criminal, at least extremely improper 
to throw it, for the sake of a punctilio, into such worthless 
hands. The man who should beggar himself, or who should 


St. Augustine, La Placette. 


448 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII, 


throw away an hundred thousand pounds, though he could 
afford that vast sum, for the sake of observing such a parole 
with a thief, would appear to the common sense of mankind, 
absurd and extravagant in the highest degree. Such profu¬ 
sion would seein inconsistent with his duty, with what he 
owed both to himself and others, and what, therefore, regard 
to a promise extorted in this manner, could by no means au¬ 
thorise. To fix, however, by any precise rule, what degree 
of regard ought to be paid to it, or what might be the greatest 
sum which could be due from it, is evidently impossible. 
This would vary according to the characters of the persons, 
according to their circumstances, according to the solemnity of 
the promise, and even according to the incidents of the ren¬ 
counter: and if the promiser had been treated with a great 
deal of that sort of gallantry, which is sometimes to be met 
with in persons of the most abandoned characters, more would 
seem due than upon other occasions. It may be said in ge¬ 
neral, that exact propriety requires the observance of all such 
promises, wherever it is not inconsistent with some other du¬ 
ties that are more sacred; such as regard to the public in¬ 
terest, to those whom gratitude, whom natural affection, or 
whom the laws of proper beneficence should prompt us to pro¬ 
vide for. But, as was formerly taken notice of, we have no pre¬ 
cise rules to determine what external actions are due from a re¬ 
gard to such motives, nor, consequently, when it is that those 
virtues are inconsistent with the observance of such promises. 

It is to be observed, however, that whenever such pro¬ 
mises are violated, though for the most necessary reasons, it 
is always with some degree of dishonour to the person who 
made them. After they are made, we may be convinced of 
the impropriety of observing them. But still there is some 
fault in having made them. It is at least a departure from 
the highest and noblest maxims of magnanimity and honour. 
A brave man ought to die, rather than make a promise which 
he can neither keep without folly, nor violate without igno¬ 
miny. For some degree of ignominy always attends a situa¬ 
tion of this kind. Treachery and falsehood are vices so dan- 


Sect. IV. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


449 


gerous, so dreadful, and at the same time, such as may so 
easily, and, upon many occasions, so safely be indulged, that 
we are more jealous of them than of almost any other. Our 
imagination therefore attaches the idea of shame to all viola¬ 
tions of faith, in every circumstance and in every situation. 
They resemble, in this respect, the violations of chastity in 
the fair sex, a virtue of which, for the like reasons, we are 
excessively jealous; and our sentiments are not more delicate 
with regard to the one, than with regard to the other. Breach 
of chastity dishonours irretrievably. No circumstances, no 
solicitation can excuse it; no sorrow, no repentance, atone 
for it. We are so nice in this respect, that even a rape dis¬ 
honours, and the innocence of the mind cannot, in our ima¬ 
gination, wash out the pollution of the body. It is the same 
case with the violation of faith, when it has been solemnly 
pledged, even to the most worthless of mankind. Fidelity 
is so necessary a virtue, that we apprehend it in general to 
be due even to those to whom nothing else is due, and whom 
we think it lawful to kill and destroy. It is to no purpose 
that the person who has been guilty of the breach of it, urges 
that he promised in order to save his life, and that he broke 
his promise because it was inconsistent with some other re¬ 
spectable duty to keep it. These circumstances may alleviate, 
but cannot entirely wipe out his dishonour. He appears to 
have been guilty of an action with which, in the imaginations 
of men, some degree of shame is inseparably connected. Fie 
has broke a promise which he had solemnly averred he would 
maintain; and his character if not irretrievably stained and 
polluted, has at least a ridicule affixed to it, which it will be 
very difficult entirely to efface; and no man, I imagine, who 
had gone through an adventure of this kind, would be fond 
of telling .the story. 

This instance may serve to show wherein consists the 
difference between casuistry and jurisprudence, even when 
both of them consider the obligations of the general rules of 
justice. 

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OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VIL 


But though this difference be real and essential, though 
those two sciences propose quite different ends, the sameness 
of the subject has made such a similarity between them, that 
the greater part of authors whose professed design was to 
treat of jurisprudence, have determined the different ques¬ 
tions they examine, sometimes according to the principles 
of that science, and sometimes according to those of casuistry, 
without distinguishing, and, perhaps, without being them¬ 
selves aware when they did the one, and when the other. 

The doctrine of the casuists, however, is by no means con¬ 
fined to the consideration of what a conscientious regard to 
the general rules of justice would demand of us. It embra¬ 
ces many other parts of Christian and moral duty. What 
seems principally to have given occasion to the cultivation 
of this species of science, was the custom of auricular con¬ 
fession, introduced by the Roman Catholic superstition, in 
times of barbarism and ignorance. By that institution, the 
most secret actions, and even the thoughts of every per¬ 
son, which could be suspected of receding in the smallest 
degree from the rules of Christian purity, were to be re¬ 
vealed to the confessor. The confessor informed his pe¬ 
nitents whether, and in what respect, they had violated 
their duty, and what penance it behoved them to under¬ 
go, before he could absolve them in the name of the offend¬ 
ed Deity. 

The consciousness, or even the suspicion of having done 
wrong, is a load upon every mind, and is accompanied with 
anxiety and terror, in all those who are not hardened by 
long habits of iniquity. Men, in this, as in all other distres¬ 
ses, are naturally eager to disburthen themselves of the op¬ 
pression which they feel upon their thoughts, by unbosom¬ 
ing the agony of their mind to some person whose secrecy 
and discretion they can confide in. The shame which they 
suffer from this acknowledgment, is fully compensated by 
that alleviation of their uneasiness which the sympathy of 
their confident seldom fails to occasion. It relieves them to 


Sect. IV. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


451 


find that they are not altogether unworthy of regard, and 
that however their past conduct may be censured, their pre¬ 
sent disposition is at least approved of, and is perhaps suffi¬ 
cient to compensate the other, at least to maintain them in 
some degree of esteem with their friend. A numerous and 
artful clergy had, in those times of superstition, insinuated 
themselves into the confidence of almost every private fa¬ 
mily. They possessed all the little learning which the times 
could afford, and their manners, though in many respects 
rude and disorderly, were polished and regular compared 
with those of the age they lived in. They were regarded, 
therefore, not only as the great directors of all religious, but 
©f all moral duties. Their familiarity gave reputation to 
whoever was so happy at to possess it, and every mark of 
their disapprobation stamped the deepest ignominy upon all 
who had the misfortune to fall under it. Being considered as 
the great judges of right and wrong, they were naturally con¬ 
sulted about all scruples that occurred, and it was reputable 
for any person to have it known that he made those holy men 
the confidents of all such secrets, and took no important 
or delicate step in his conduct without their advice and ap¬ 
probation. It was not difficult for the clergy, therefore, to 
get it established as a general rule, that they should be en¬ 
trusted with what it had already become fashionable to en¬ 
trust them, and with what they generally would have been 
entrusted, though no such rule had been established. To 
qualify themselves for confessors became thus a necessary 
part of the study of churchmen and divines, and they were 
thence led to collect what are called cases of conscience, 
nice and delicate situations in which it is hard to determine 
whereabouts the propriety of conduct may lie. Such work*, 
they imagined, might be of use both to the directors of 
consciences, and to those who were to be directed; and 
hence the origia of books of casuistry. 

The moral duties which fell under the consideration of 
the casuists, were chiefly those which can, in some measure 

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Part VII. 


at least, be circumscribed within general rules, and of which 
the violation is naturally attended with some degree of re¬ 
morse, and some dread of suffering punishment. The de¬ 
sign of that institution which gave occasion to their works, 
was to appease those terrors of conscience which attend up¬ 
on the infringement of such duties. But it is not every vir¬ 
tue of which the defect is accompanied with any very severe 
compunctions of this kind, and no man applies to his confes¬ 
sor for absolution, because he did not perform the most ge¬ 
nerous, the most friendly, or the most magnanimous action 
which, in his circumstances, it was possible to perform. In 
failures of this kind, the rule that is violated is commonly 
not very determinate, and is generally of such a nature too, 
that though the observance of it might entitle to honour 
and reward, the violation seems to expose to no positive 
blame, censure, or punishment. The exercise of such vir¬ 
tues the casuists seem to have regarded as a sort of works 
of supererogation, which could not be very strictly ex¬ 
acted, and which it was therefore unnecessary for them to 
treat of. 

The breaches of moral duty, therefore, which came be¬ 
fore the tribunal of the confessor, and upon that account 
fell under the cognizance of the casuists, were chiefly of three 
different kinds. 

First and principally, breaches of the rules of justice. 
The rules here are all express and positive, and the violation 
of them is naturally attended with the consciousness of deserv¬ 
ing, and the dread of suffering punishment both from God 
and man. 

Secondly, breaches of the rules of chastity. These in 
all grosser instances are real breaches of the rules of justice, 
and no person can be guilty of them without doing the most 
unpardonable injury to some other. In smaller instances, 
when they amount only to a violation of those exact deco¬ 
rums which ought to be observed in the conversation of the 
two sexes, they cannot indeed justly be considered as viola- 


Sect. IV. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


453 


tions of the rules of justice. They are generally, however, 
violations of a pretty plain rule, and, at least, in one of the 
sexes, tend to bring ignominy upon the person who has been 
guilty of them, and consequently to be attended in the scru¬ 
pulous with some degree of shame and contrition of mind. 

Thirdly, breaches of the rules of veracity. The viola¬ 
tion of truth, it is to be observed, is not always a breach of 
justice, though it is so upon many occasions, and consequent¬ 
ly cannot always expose to any external punishment. The 
vice of common lying, though a most miserable meanness, 
may frequently do hurt to nobody, and in this case no claim 
of vengeance or satisfaction can be due either to the persons 
imposed upon, or to others. But though the violation of 
truth is not always a breach of justice, it is always a breach 
of a very plain rule, and what naturally tends to cover with 
shame the person who has been guilty of it. 

There seems to be in young children an instinctive dis¬ 
position to believe whatever they are told. Nature seems 
to have judged it necessary for their preservation, that they 
should, for some time at least, put implicit confidence in 
those to whom the care of their childhood, and of the ear¬ 
liest and most necessary parts of their education, is intrusted. 
Their credulity, accordingly, is excessive, and it requires 
long and much experience of the falsehood of mankind to 
reduce them to a reasonable degree of diffidence and dis¬ 
trust. In grown-up people the degrees of credulity are, no 
doubt, very different. The wisest and most experienced 
are generally the least credulous. But the man scarce lives 
who is not more credulous than he ought to be, and who 
does not, upon many occasions, give credit to tales, which 
not only turn out to be perfectly false, but which a very 
moderate degree of reflection and attention might have 
taught him could not well be true. The natural disposition 
is always to believe. It is acquired wisdom and experience 
only that teach incredulity, and they very seldom teach it 
enough. The wisest and most cautious of us all frequently 


454 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


gives credit to stories which he himself is afterwards both 
ashamed and astonished that he could possibly think of be¬ 
lieving. 

The man whom we believe is necessarily, in the things 
concerning which we believe him, our leader and director, 
and we look up to him with a certain degree of esteem and 
respect. But as from admiring other people, we come to 
wish to be admired ourselves; so from being led and di¬ 
rected by other people, we learn to wish to become ourselves 
leaders and directors. And as we cannot always be satis¬ 
fied merely with being admired, unless we can at the same 
time persuade ourselves that we are in some degree really 
worthy of admiration; so we cannot always be satisfied mere¬ 
ly with being believed, unless we are at the same time con¬ 
scious that we are really worthy of belief. As the desire of 
praise, and that of praise-worthiness, though very much a- 
kin, are yet distinct and separate desires; so the desire of 
being believed and that of being worthy of belief, though 
very much a-kin too, are equally distinct and separate de¬ 
sires. 

The desire of being believed, the desire of persuading,, 
of leading and directing other people, seems to be one of 
the strongest of all our natural desires. It is, perhaps, the 
instinct upon which is founded the faculty of speech, the 
characteristical faculty of human nature. No other animal 
possesses this faculty, and we cannot discover in any other 
animal any desire to lead and direct the judgment and con¬ 
duct of its fellows. Great ambition, the desire of real su¬ 
periority, of leading and directing, seems to be altogether 
peculiar to man, and speech is the great instrument of am¬ 
bition, of real superiority, of leading and directing the judg¬ 
ments and conduct of other people. 

It is always mortifying not to be believed, and it is doub¬ 
ly so when we suspect that it is because we are supposed to 
be unworthy of belief, and capable of seriously and wilfully 
deceiving. To tell a man that he lies, is of all affronts the 


Sect. IV. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


455 


most mortal. But whoever seriously and wilfully deceives, 
is necessarily conscious to himself that he merits this affront, 
that he does not deserve to be believed, and that he forfeits 
all title to that sort of credit from which alone he can derive 
any sort of ease, comfort, or satisfaction in the society of his 
equals. The man who had the misfortune to imagine that 
nobody believed a single word he said, would feel himself 
the outcast of human society, would dread the very thought 
of going into it, or of presenting himself before it, and could 
scarce fail, I think, to die of despair. It is probable, how¬ 
ever, that no man ever had just reason to entertain this hu¬ 
miliating opinion of himself. The most notorious liar, I am 
disposed to believe, tells the fair truth at least twenty times 
for once that he seriously and deliberately lies; and, as in 
the most cautious, the disposition to believe is apt to prevail 
over that to doubt and distrust; so in those who are the most 
regardless of truth, the natural disposition to tell it prevails 
upon most occasions over that to deceive, or in any respect 
to alter or disguise it. 

We are mortified when we happen to deceive other peo¬ 
ple, though unintentionally, and from having been ourselves 
deceived. Though this involuntary falsehood may frequently 
be no mark of any want of veracity, of any want of the most 
perfect love of truth, it is always in some degree a mark of 
want of judgment, of want of memory, of improper credulity, 
of some degree of precipitancy and rashness. It always di¬ 
minishes our authority to persuade, and always brings some 
degree of suspicion upon our fitness to lead and direct. The 
man who sometimes misleads from mistake, however, is wide¬ 
ly different from him who is capable of wilfully deceiving. 
The former may safely be trusted upon many occasions; the 
latter very seldom upon any. 

Frankness and openness conciliate confidence. We trust 
the man who seems willing to trust us. We see clearly, we 
think, the road by which he means to conduct us, and we 
abandon ourselves with pleasure to his guidance and direc- 


456 


OP SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII* 


tion. Reserve and concealment, on the contrary, call forth 
diffidence. We are afraid to follow the man who is going 
we do not know where. The great pleasure of conversation 
and society, besides, arises from a certain correspondence of 
sentiments and opinions, from a certain harmony of minds, 
which like so many musical instruments, coincide and keep 
time with one another. But this most delightful harmony 
cannot be obtained unless there is a free communication of 
sentiments and opinions. We all desire, upon this account, 
to feel how each other is affected, to penetrate into each 
other’s bosoms, and to observe the sentiments and affections 
which really subsist there. The man who indulges us in this 
natural passion, who invites us into his heart, who, as it were, 
sets open the gates of his breast to us, seems to exercise a 
species of hospitality more delightful than any other. No 
man, who is in ordinary good temper, can fail of pleasing, 
if he has the courage to utter his real sentiments as he feels 
them, and because he feels them. It is this unreserved sincer¬ 
ity which renders even the prattle of a child agreeable. How 
weak and imperfect soever the views of the open-hearted, we 
take pleasure to enter into them, and endeavour, as much as 
we can, to bring down our own understanding to the level of 
their capacities, and to regard every subject in the particular 
light in which they appear to have considered it. This passion 
to discover the real sentiments of others is naturally so strong, 
that it often degenerates into a troublesome and impertinent 
curiosity to pry into those secrets of our neighbours which 
they have very justifiable reasons for concealing*, and, upon 
many occasions, it requires prudence and a strong sense of pro¬ 
priety to govern this, as well as all the other passions of human 
nature, and to reduce it to that pitch which any impartial spec¬ 
tator can approve of. To disappoint this curiosity, however, 
when it is kept within proper bounds, and aims at nothing 
which there can be any just reason for concealing, is equally 
disagreeable in its turn. The man who eludes our most inno¬ 
cent questions, who gives no satisfaction to our most inoffen- 


Sect. IV. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


4 51 


sive inquiries, who plainly wraps himself up in impenetrable 
obscurity, seems, as it were, to build a wall about his breast. 
We run forward to get within it, with all the eagerness of 
harmless curiosity 5 and feel ourselves all at once pushed back 
with the rudest and most offensive violence. 

The man of reserve and concealment, though seldom a 
very amiable character, is not disrespected or despised. He 
seems to feel coldly towards us, and we feel as coldly towards 
him. He is not much praised or beloved, but he is as little 
hated or blamed. He very seldom, however, has occasion 
to repent cf his caution, and is generally disposed rather to 
value himself upon the prudence of his reserve. Though 
his conduct, therefore, may have been very faulty, and some¬ 
times even hurtful, he can very seldom be disposed to lay 
his case before the casuists, or to fancy that he has any occa¬ 
sion for their acquittal or approbation. 

It is not always so with the man, who, from false infor¬ 
mation, from inadvertency, from precipitancy and rashness, 
has involuntarily deceived. Though it should be in a mat¬ 
ter of little consequence, in telling a piece of common news, 
for example, if he is a real lover of truth, he is ashamed of 
his own carelessness, and never fails to embrace the first op¬ 
portunity of making the fullest acknowledgments. If it is 
in a matter of some consequence, his contrition is still great¬ 
er; and if any unlucky or fatal consequence has followed 
from his misinformation, he can scarce ever forgive himself. 
Though not guilty, he feels himself to be in the highest de¬ 
gree what the ancients called, piacular, and is anxious and 
eager to make every sort of atonement in his power. Such a 
person might frequently be disposed to lay his case before the 
casuists, who have in general been very favourable to him, 
and though they have sometimes justly condemned him for 
rashness, they have universally acquitted him of the ignominy 
of falsehood. 

But the man who had the most frequent occasion to con¬ 
sult them, was the man of equivocation and mental reservation, 
the man who seriously and deliberately meant to deceive, 

3 M - 


458 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VII. 


but who, at the same time wished to flatter himself that he 
had really told the truth. With him they have dealt vari¬ 
ously. When they approved very much of the motives of 
his deceit, they have sometimes acquitted him, though, to do 
them justice, they have in general and much more frequently 
condemned him. 

The chief subjects of the works of the casuists, therefore, 
were the conscientious regard that is due to the rules of jus¬ 
tice; how far we ought to respect the life and property of 
our neighbour; the duty of restitution; the laws of chastity 
and modesty, and wherein consisted what, in their language, 
are called the sins of concupiscence; the rules of veracity, 
and the obligation of oaths, promises, and contracts of all 
kinds. 

It may be said in general of the works of the casuists, 
that they attempted, to no purpose, to direct by precise rules 
what it belongs to feeling and sentiment only to judge of. 
How is it possible to ascertain by rules the exact point at 
which, in every case, a delicate sense of justice begins to run 
into a frivolous and weak scrupulosity of conscience ? When 
it is that secrecy and reserve begin to grow into dissimulation? 
How far an agreeable irony may be carried, and at what pre¬ 
cise point it begins to degenerate into a detestable lie? What 
is the highest pitch of freedom and ease of behaviour which 
can be regarded as graceful and becoming, and when it is that 
it first begins to run into a negligent and thoughtless licen¬ 
tiousness? With regard to all such matters, what would hold 
good in any one case would scarce do so exactly in any other, 
and what constitutes the propriety and happiness of behavi¬ 
our, varies in every case with the smallest variety of situation. 
Books of casuistry, therefore, are generally as useless as they 
are commonly tiresome. They could be of little use to one 
who should consult them upon occasion, even supposing their 
decisions to be just; because, notwithstanding the multitude 
of cases collected in them, yet upon account of the still great¬ 
er variety of possible circumstances, it is a chance, if among 
all those cases there be found one exactly parallel to that un- 


Sect. IV. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


459 


der consideration. One who is really anxious to do his duty, 
must be very weak, if he can imagine that he has much oc¬ 
casion for them-, and with regard to one who is negligent of 
it, the style of those writings is not such as it is likely to a- 
waken him to more attention. None of them tend to ani¬ 
mate us to what is generous and noble. None of them tend 
to soften us to what is gentle and humane. Many of them, 
on the contrary, tend rather to teach us to chicane with our 
own consciences, and by their vain subtilties serve to author¬ 
ise innumerable evasive refinements with regard to the most 
essential articles of our duty. That frivolous accuracy which 
they attempted to introduce into subjects which do not admit 
of it, almost necessarily betrayed them into those dangerous 
errors, and at the same time rendered their works dry and 
disagreeable, abounding in abstruse and metaphysical distinc¬ 
tions, but incapable of exciting in the heart any of those 
emotions which it is the principle use of books of morality to 
excite. 

The two useful parts of moral philosophy, therefore, are 
Ethics and Jurisprudence: casuistry ought to be rejected alto¬ 
gether; and the ancient moralists appear to have judged much 
better, who in treating of the same subjects, did not affect 
any such nice exactness, but contented themselves with de¬ 
scribing, in a general manner, what is the sentiment upon 
which justice, modesty, and veracity are founded, and what 
is the ordinary way of acting to which those virtues would 
commonly prompt us. 

Something, indeed, not unlike the doctrine of the cas¬ 
uists, seems to have been attempted by several philosophers. 
There is something of this kind in the third book of Cicero s 
Offices, where he endeavours like a casuist to give rules for 
our conduct in many nice cases, in which it is difficult to 
determine whereabout the point of propriety may lie. It ap¬ 
pears too, from many passages in the same book, that several 
other philosophers had attempted something of the same 
kind before him. Neither he nor they, however, appear to 
have aimed at giving a complete system of this sort, but omy 

3 M 2 


460 


OF SYSTEMS OF 


Part VIL 


meant to show how situations may occur, in which it is doubt¬ 
ful whether the highest propriety of conduct consists in ob¬ 
serving or in receding from what, in ordinary cases, are the 
rules of duty. 

Every system of positive law may be regarded as a more 
or less imperfect attempts towards a system of natural juris¬ 
prudence, or towards an enumeration of the particular rules 
of justice. As the violation of justice is what men will never 
submit to from one another, the public magistrate is under a 
necessity of employing the power of the commonwealth to 
enforce the practice of this virtue. Without this precaution, 
civil society would become a scene of bloodshed and disorder, 
every man revenging himself at his own hand, whenever he 
fancied he was injured. To prevent the confusion which 
would attend upon every man’s doing justice to himself, the 
magistrate, in all governments that have acquired any consi¬ 
derable authority, undertakes to do justice to all, and pro¬ 
mises to hear and to redress every complaint of injury. In 
all well-governed states too, not only judges are appointed 
for determining the controversies of individuals, but rules 
are prescribed for regulating the decisions of those judges*, 
and these rules are, in general, intended to coincide with 
those of natural justice. It does not, indeed, always happen 
that they do so in every instance. Sometimes what is called 
the constitution of the state, that is, the interest of the go¬ 
vernment*, sometimes the interest of particular orders of men 
who tyrannize the government, warp the positive laws of 
the country from what natural justice would prescribe. In 
some countries, the rudeness and barbarism of the people 
hinder the natural sentiments of justice from arriving at that 
accuracy and precision which, in more civilized nations, they 
naturally attain to. Their laws are, like their manners, gross 
and rude and undistinguishing. In other countries the un¬ 
fortunate constitution of their courts of judicature hinders 
any regular system of jurisprudence from ever establishing 
itself among them, though the improved manners of the peo¬ 
ple may be such as would admit of the most accurate. In 


Sect. IV. 


MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 


46j 


no country do the decisions of positive law coincide exactly, 
in every case, with the rules which the natural sense of jus¬ 
tice would dictate. Systems of positive law, therefore, 
though they deserve the greatest authority, as the records of 
the sentiments of mankind in different ages and nations, yet 
can never be regarded as accurate systems of the rules of na¬ 
tural justioe. 

It might have been expected that the reasonings of law¬ 
yers, upon the different imperfections and improvements of 
the laws of different countries, should have given occasion 
to an inquiry into what were the natural rules of justice in¬ 
dependent of all positive institution. It might have been ex¬ 
pected that these reasonings should have led them to aim at 
establishing a system of what might properly be called natural 
jurisprudence, or a theory of the general principles which 
ought to run through and be the foundation of the laws of 
all nations. But though the reasonings of lawyers did pro¬ 
duce something of this kind, and though no man has treated 
systematically of the laws of any particular country, without 
intermixing in his work many observations of this sort; it 
was very late in the world before any such general system 
was thought of, or before the philosophy of law was treated 
of by itself, and without regard to the particular institutions 
of any one nation. In none of the ancient moralists, do we 
find any attempt towards a particular enumeration of the 
rules of justice. Cicero in his Offices, and Aristotle in his 
Ethics, treat of justice in the same general manner in which 
they treat of all the other virtues. In the laws of Cicero 
and Plato, where we might naturally have expected some at¬ 
tempts towards an enumeration of those rules of natural e- 
quity, which ought to be enforced by the positive laws of 
every country, there is, however, nothing of this kind. Their 
laws are laws of police, not of justice. Grotius seems to 
have been the first who attempted to give the world any 
thing like a system of those principles which ought to run 
through, and be the foundation of the laws of all nations; 
and his treatise of the laws of war and peace, with all its im- 


462 


OF SYSTEMS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. Part VII. 


perfections, is perhaps at this day the most complete work 
that has yet been given upon the subject. I shall in another 
discourse endeavour to give an account of the general prin¬ 
ciples of law and government, and of the different revolu¬ 
tions they have undergone in the different ages and periods 
of society, not only in what concerns justice, but in what 
concerns police, revenue, and arms, and whatever else is the 
object of law. I shall not, therefore, at present enter into 
any further detail concerning the history of jurisprudence. 


END OF MORAL SENTIMENTS . 


CONSJDERA TIONS 

CONCERNING THE FIRST 

FORMATION OF LANGUAGES, 


AND THE 

Different genius of original and compounded 


LANGUAGES. 


* 



CONSIDEBA TIONS 


concerning the first 

FORMATION OF LANGUAGES, 

<§'C. <§r. $c. 


THE assignation of particular names, to denote particular 
objects, that is, the institution of nouns substantive, would 
probably be one of the first steps towards the formation of 
language. Two savages, who had never been taught to 
speak, but had been bred up remote from the societies of 
men, would naturally begin to form that language by which 
they would endeavour to make their mutual wants intelligi¬ 
ble to each other, by uttering certain sounds, whenever they 
meant to denote certain objects. Those objects only which 
were most familiar to them, and which they had most fre¬ 
quent occasion to mention, would have particular names as¬ 
signed to them. The particular cave whose covering shelter¬ 
ed them from the weather, the particular tree whose fruit re¬ 
lieved their hunger, the particular fountain whose water al¬ 
layed their thirst, would first be denominated by the words 
cave , tree, fountain , or by whatever other appellations they 
might think proper, in that primitive jargon, to mark them. 
Afterwards, when the more enlarged experience of these 
savages had led them to observe, and their necessary occa¬ 
sions obliged them to make mention of other caves, and o- 

3 N 


466 


FORMATION OF 


ther trees, and other fountains, they would naturally bestow, 
upon each of those new objects, the same name, by which 
they had been accustomed to express the similiar object they 
were first acquainted with. The new objects had none of 
of them any name of its own, but each of them exactly re¬ 
sembled another object, which had such an appellation. It 
was impossible that those savages could behold the new ob¬ 
jects, without recollecting the old ones; and the name of the 
old ones, to which the new bore so close a resemblance. 
When they had occasion, therefore, to mention, or to point 
out to each other, any of the new objects, they would natur¬ 
ally utter the name of the correspondent old one, of which 
the idea could not fail, at that instant, to present itself to 
their memory in the strongest and liveliest manner. And 
thus, those words, which were originally the proper names 
of individuals, would each of them insensibly become the 
common name of a multitude. A child that is just learning 
to speak, calls every person who comes to the house its papa, 
or its mamma; and thus bestows upon the whole species those 
names which it has been taught to apply to two individuals. 

I have known a clown, who did not know the proper name 
of the river which ran by his own door. It was the river , 
he said, and he never heard any other name for it. His ex¬ 
perience, it seems, had not led him to observe any other ri¬ 
ver. The general word river y therefore, was, it is evident, 
in his acceptance of it, a proper name signifying an individual 
object. If this person had been carried to another river, 
would he not readily have called it a river? Could we sup¬ 
pose any person living on the banks of the Thames so igno¬ 
rant, as not to know the general word river y but to be ac¬ 
quainted only with the particular word Thames , if he was 
brought to any other river, would he not readily call it a 
Thames? This, in reality, is no more than what they, who 
are well acquainted with the general word, are very apt to 
do. An Englishman, describing any great river which he 
may have seen in some foreign country, naturally says that 
it is another Thames. The Spaniards, when they first arrived 


LANGUAGES. 


467 


upon the coast of Mexico, and observed the wealth, popu¬ 
lousness, and habitations, of that fine country, so much supe¬ 
rior, to the savage nations which they had been visiting for 
some time before, cried out that it was another Spain. Hence 
it was called New Spain ; and this name has stuck to that 
unfortunate country ever since. We say, in the same man¬ 
ner, of a hero, that he is an Alexander; of an orator, that 
he is a Cicero; of a philosopher, that he is a Newton. This 
way of speaking, which the grammarians call an Antonoma- 
sia, and which is still extremely common, though now not at 
all necessary, demonstrates how much mankind are naturally 
disposed to give to one object the name of any other, which 
nearly resembles it, and thus to denominate a multitude, by 
what originally was intended to express an individuals 

It is this application of the name of an individual to a 
great multitude of objects, whose resemblance naturally recalls 
the idea of that individual, and of the name which expresses 
it, that seems originally to have given occasion to the format 
tion of those classes and assortments, which, in the schools, 
are called genera and species, and of which the ingenious and 
eloquent M. Rousseau of Geneva* finds himself so much at 
a loss to account for the origin. What constitutes a species 
is merely a number of objects, bearing a certain degree of re¬ 
semblance to one another, and on that account denominated 
by a single appellation* which may be applied to. express any 
one of them. 

When the greater part of objects had thus been arranged 
under their proper classes and assortments, distinguished by 
such general names, it was impossible that the greater part 
of that almost infinite number of individuals, comprehended 
under each particular assortment or species, could have any 
peculiar or proper names of their own, distinct from the ge¬ 
neral name of the species. When there was occasion, there¬ 
fore, to mention any particular object, it often became neces- 

* Origine de l’lnegalite. Par tie Premiere, p. 376, 377. Edition d’Amstet- 
dam des Oeuvres diverses de J. J. Rousseau. 


3 N 2 


468 


FORMATION OF 


sary to distinguish it from the other objects comprehended 
under the same general name, either, first, by its peculiar 
qualities; or, secondly, by the peculiar relation which it stood 
in to some other things. Hence the necessary origin of two 
other sets of words, of which the one should express quality; 
the other, relation. 

Nouns adjective are the words which express quality con¬ 
sidered as qualifying, or, as the schoolmen say, in concrete 
with, some particular subject. Thus the word green ex¬ 
presses a certain quality considered as qualifying, or as in 
concrete with, the particular subject to which it may be ap¬ 
plied. Words of this kind, it is evident, may serve to dis¬ 
tinguish particular objects from others comprehended under 
the same general appellation. The words gt'een tree , for ex¬ 
ample, might serve to distinguish a particular tree from others 
that were withered or blasted. 

Prepositions are the words which express relation con¬ 
sidered, in the same manner, in concrete with the co-relative 
object. Thus the prepositions of to, for , with, by, above , 
below. See . denote some relation subsisting between the objects 
expressed by the words between which the prepositions are 
placed; and they denote that this relation is considered in 
concrete with the co-relative object. Words of this kind 
serve to distinguish particular objects from others of the same 
species, when those particular objects cannot be so properly 
marked out by any peculiar qualities of their own. When 
we say the green tree of the meadow , for example, wejdistin- 
guish a particular tree, not only by the quality which belongs 
to it, but by the relation which it stands in to another object. 

As neither quality nor relation can exist in abstract, it is 
natural to suppose that the words which denote them consid¬ 
ered in concrete, the way in which we always sec them sub¬ 
sist, would be of much earlier invention than those which 
express them considered in abstract, the way in which we 
never see them subsist. The words green and blue would, in 
all probability, be sooner invented than the words greenness 
and blueness ; the words above and below , than the words su- 


LANGUAGES. 


469 


periority and inferiority . To invent words of the latter kind 
requires a much greater effort of abstraction than to invent 
those of the former. It is probable, therefore, that such ab¬ 
stract terms would be of much later institution. Accord¬ 
ingly, their etymologies generally shew that they are so, they 
being generally derived from others that are concrete. 

But though the invention of nouns adjective be much more 
natural than that of the abstract nouns substantive derived 
from them, it would still, however, require a considerable 
degree of abstraction and generalization. Those, for exam¬ 
ple, who first invented the words green , blue , red , and the 
other names of colours, must have observed and compared 
together a great number of objects, must have remarked their 
resemblances and dissimilitudes in respect of the quality of 
colour, and must have arranged them, in their own minds, 
into different classes and assortments, according to those re¬ 
semblances and dissimilitudes. An adjective is by nature a 
general, and in some measure an abstract word, and necessa¬ 
rily presupposes the idea of a certain species or assortment 
of things, to all of which it is equally applicable. The word 
green could not, as we were supposing might be the case of 
the word cave , have been originally the name of an individual, 
and afterwards have become, by what grammarians call an 
Antonomasia, the name of a species. The word green denot¬ 
ing, not the name of a substance, but the peculiar quality of 
a substance, must from the very first have been a general 
word, and considered as equally applicable to any other sub¬ 
stance possessed of the same quality. The man who first 
distinguished a particular object by the epithet of gi'een , must 
have observed other objects that were not green from which 
he ment to separate it by this appellation. The institution 
of this name, therefore, supposes comparison. It likewise 
supposes some degree of abstraction. The person who first 
invented this appellation must have distinguished the quality 
from the object to which it belonged, and must have con¬ 
ceived the object as capable of subsisting without the quality. 
The invention, therefore, even of the simplest nouns adjec- 


m 


FORMATION OF 


tive, must have required more metaphysics than we are apt 
to be aware of. The different mental operations, of arrange¬ 
ment or classing, of comparison, and of abstraction, must all- 
have been employed, before even the names of the different 
colours, the least metaphysical of all nouns adjective, could 
be instituted. From all which I infer, that when languages 
were beginning to be formed, nouns adjective would by no 
means be the words of the earliest invention. 

There is another expedient for denoting the different 
qualities of different substances, which as it requires no ab¬ 
straction, nor any conceived separation of the quality from 
the subject, seems more natural than the invention of nouns 
adjective, and which, upon this account, could hardly fail, in 
the first formation of language, to be thought of before them. 
This expedient is to make some variation upon the noun sub¬ 
stantive itself, according to the different qualities which it is 
endowed with. Thus, in many languages, the qualities both 
of sex and of the want of sex, are expressed by different ter¬ 
minations in the nouns substantive, which denote objects so 
qualified. In Latin, for example, lupas, lupa ; equus, equa ; 
juvencus , juvenca ; Julius, Julia; Lucretius, Lucretia. See. 
denote the qualities of male and female in the animals and 
persons to whom such appellations belong, without needing 
the addition of any adjective for this purpose. On the other 
hand, the words forum, pratum, plaustrum, denote by their 
peculiar termination the total absence of sex in the different 
substances which they stand for. Both sex, and the want 
of all sex, being naturally considered as qualities modifying 
and inseparable from the particular substances to which they 
belong, it was natural to express them rather by a modifica¬ 
tion in the noun substantive, than by any general and ab¬ 
stract word expressive of this particular species of quality. 
The expression bears, it is evident, in this way, a much more 
exact analogy to the idea or object which it denotes, than in 
the other. The quality appears, in nature, as a modification 
of the substance, and as it is thus expressed, in language, by 
a modification of the noun substantive, which denotes th^t 


LANGUAGES. 


471 


Substance, the quality and the subject are, in this case, blend¬ 
ed together, if I may say so, in the expression, in the same 
manner as they appear to be in the object and in the idea. 
Hence the origin of the masculine, feminine, and neutral gen¬ 
ders, in all the ancient languages. By means of these the 
most important of all distinctions, that of substances into an¬ 
imated and inanimated, and that of animals into male and 
female, seem to have been sufficiently marked without the 
assistance of adjectives, or of any general names denoting 
this most extensive species of qualifications. 

There are no more than these three genders in any of 
the languages with which I am acquainted; that is to say, 
the -formation of nouns substantive can, by itself, and without 
the accompaniment of adjectives, express no other qualities 
but those three above mentioned, the qualities of male, of 
female, of neither male nor female. I should not, however, 
be surprised, if, in other languages with which I am unac¬ 
quainted, the different formations of nouns substantive should 
be capable of expressing many other different qualities. The 
different diminutives of the Italian, and of some other lan¬ 
guages, do, in reality, sometimes, express a great variety of 
different modifications in the substances denoted by those 
nouns which undergo such variations. 

It was impossible, however, that nouns substantive could, 
without losing altogether their original form, undergo so 
great a number of variations, as would be sufficient to express 
that almost infinite variety of qualities, by which it might, 
upon different occasions, be necessary to specify and distin¬ 
guish them. Though the different formation of nouns sub¬ 
stantive, therefore, might, for some time, forestall the neces¬ 
sity of inventing nouns adjective, it was impossible that this 
necessity could be forestalled altogether. When nouns ad¬ 
jective came to be invented, it was natural that they should 
be formed with some similarity to the substantives to which 
they were to serve as epithets or qualifications. Men would 
naturally give them the same terminations with the substan¬ 
tives to which they were first applied, and from that love of 


472 


FORMATION OF 


similarity of sound, from that delight in the returns of the 
same syllables, which is the foundation of analogy in all lan¬ 
guages, they would be apt to vary the termination of the 
same adjective, according as they had occasion to apply it to 
a masculine, to a feminine, or to a neutral substantive. They 
would say, magnus lupus , magna lupa , magnum pratum, when 
they meant to express a great he wolf, a great she wolf, a 
great meadow. 

This variation, in the termination of the noun adjective, 
according to the gender of the substantive, which takes place 
in all the ancient languages, seems to have been introduced 
chiefly for the sake of a certain similarity of sound, of a cer¬ 
tain species of rhyme, which is naturally so very agreeable to 
the human ear. Gender it is to be observed, cannot properly 
belong to a noun adjective, the signification of which is al¬ 
ways precisely the same, to whatever species of substantives 
it is applied. When we say, a great man , a gi'eat woman , 
the word great has precisely the same meaning in both cases, 
and the difference of the sex in the subjects to which it may 
be applied, makes no sort of difference in its signification. 
Magnus , magna , magnum , in the same manner, are words 
which express precisely the same quality, and the change of 
the termination is accompanied with no sort of variation in 
the meaning. Sex and gender are qualities which belong 
to substances, but cannot belong to the qualities of substances. 
In general, no quality, when considered in concrete, or as 
qualifying some particular subject, can itself be conceived as 
the subject of any other quality, though when considered in 
abstract it may. No adjective therefore can qualify any o- 
ther adjective. A great good man , means a man who is both 
great and good. Both the adjectives qualify the substantive; 
they do not qualify one another. On the other hand, when 
we say, the great goodness of the man, the word goodness de¬ 
noting a quality considered in abstract, which may itself be 
the subject of other qualities, is upon that account capable of 
being qualified by the word great. 

If the original invention of nouns adjective would be at- 


LANGUAGES. 


473 


tended with so much difficulty, that of prepositions would 
be accompanied with yet more. Every preposition, as I have 
already observed, denotes some relation considered in con¬ 
crete with the co-relative object. The preposition above , 
for example, denotes the relation of superiority, not in ab¬ 
stract, as it is expressed by the word superiority , but in con¬ 
crete with some co-relative object. In this phrase, for exam¬ 
ple, the tree above the cave , the word above expresses a cer¬ 
tain relation between the tree and the cave y and it expresses 
this relation in concrete with the co-relative object, the cave. 
A preposition always requires, in order to complete the sense, 
some other word to come after it; as may be observed in this 
particular instance. Now, I say, the original invention of 
such words would require a yet greater effort of abstrac¬ 
tion and generalization, than that of nouns adjective. First 
of all, a relation is, in itself, a more metaphysical object 
than a quality. Nobody can be at a loss to explain what is 
meant by a quality; but few people will find themselves a- 
ble to express, very distinctly, what is understood by a rela¬ 
tion. Qualities are almost always the objects of our exter¬ 
nal senses; relations never are. No wonder, therefore, that 
the one set of objects should be so much more comprehensi¬ 
ble than the other. Secondly, though prepositions always 
express the relation which they stand for, in concrete with 
the co-relative object, they could not have originally been 
formed without a considerable effort of abstraction. A pre¬ 
position denotes a relation and nothing but a relation. But 
before men could institute a word, which signified a relation, 
and nothing but a relation, they must have been able, in 
some measure, to consider this relation abstractedly from the 
related objects; since the idea of those objects does not, in 
any respect, enter into the signification of the preposition. 
The invention of such a word, therefore, must have required 
a considerable degree of abstraction. Thirdly, a preposition 
is from its nature a general word, which, from its very first 
institution, must have been considered as equally applicable 
to denote any other similar relation. The man who first in- 

3 o 


474 


FORMATION OF 


vented the word above , must not only have distinguished, in 
some measure, the relation of superiority from the objects 
which were so related, but he must have also distinguished 
this relation from other relations, such as, from the relation 
of inferiority denoted by the word below, from the relation 
of juxtaposition , expressed by the word beside , and the like. 
He must have conceived this word, therefore, as expressive 
of a particular sort or species of relation distinct from every 
other, which could not be done without a considerable effort 
of comparison and generalization. 

Whatever were the difficulties, therefore, which embar¬ 
rassed the first invention of nouns adjective, the same, and 
many more, must have embarrassed that of prepositions. If 
mankind, therefore, in the first formation of languages, seem 
to have, for some time, evaded the necessity of nouns adjec¬ 
tive, by varying the termination of the names of substances, 
according as these varied in some of their most important 
qualities, they would much more find themselves under the 
necessity of evading, by some similar contrivance, the yet 
more difficult invention of prepositions. The different cases 
in the ancient languages is a contrivance of precisely the 
same kind. The genitive and dative cases, in Greek and 
Latin, evidently supply the place of the prepositions; and 
by a variation in the noun substantive, which stands for the 
co-relative term, express the relation which subsists between 
what is denoted by that noun substantive, and what is ex¬ 
pressed by some other word in the sentence. In these ex¬ 
pressions, for example, fructus arbor is, the fruit of the tree; 
saecr Herculi , sacred to Hercules; the variations made in 
the co-relative words, arbor and Hercules , express the same 
relations which are expressed in English by the prepositions 
of and to. 

To express a relation in this manner, did not require any 
effort of abstraction. It was not here expressed by a peculiar 
word denoting relation and nothing but relation, but by a va¬ 
riation upon the co-relative term. It was expressed here, as 
it appears in nature, not as something separated and detach- 


LANGUAGES. 


475 


ed, but as thoroughly mixed and blendid with the co-rela¬ 
tive object. 

To express relation in this manner, did not require any 
effort of generalization. The words arboris and Herculi , 
while they involve in their signification the same relation ex¬ 
pressed by the English prepositions of and to> are not like 
those prepositions, general words, which can be applied to 
express the same relation between whatever other objects it. 
might be observed to subsist. 

To express relation in this manner did not require any 
effort of comparison. The words aboris and Herculi are not 
general words intended to denote a particular species of rela¬ 
tions which the inventors of those expressions meant, in con¬ 
sequence of some sort of comparison, to separate and distin¬ 
guish from every other sort of relation* The example, in¬ 
deed, of this contrivance would soon probably be followed* 
and whoever had occasion to express a similar relation be¬ 
tween any other objects would be very apt to do it by mak¬ 
ing a similar variation on the name of the correlative object. 
This I say, would probably, or rather certainly happen; but 
it would happen without any intention or foresight in those 
who first set the example, and who never meant to establish 
any general rule. The general rule would establish itself in¬ 
sensibly, and by slow degrees, in consequence of that love of 
analogy and similarity of sound, which is the foundation of 
by far the greater part of the rules of grammar. 

To express relation, therefore, by a variation in the name 
of the co-relative object, requiring neither abstraction, nor 
generalization, nor comparison of any kind, would, at first, 
be much more natural and easy, than to express it by those 
general words called prepositions, of which the first invention 
must have demanded some degree of all those operations. 

The number of cases is different in different languages. 
There are five in the Greek, six in the Latin, and there are 
said to be ten in the Armenian language. It must have na¬ 
turally happened that there should be a greater or a smaller 
number of cases, according as in the terminations of nouns 

3 o % 


476 


FORMATION OF 


substantive the first formers of any language happened to have 
established a greater or smaller number of variations, in or¬ 
der to express the different relations they had occasion to 
take notice of, before the invention of those more general 
and abstract prepositions which could supply their place. 

It is, perhaps, worth while to observe that those proposi¬ 
tions, which in modern languages hold the place of the an¬ 
cient cases, are of all others, the most general, and abstract, 
and metaphysical; and of consequence would probably be the 
last invented. Ask any man of common acuteness, What 
relation is expressed by the preposition above? He will read¬ 
ily answer, that of superiority. By the preposition below? 
He will as quickly reply, that of inferiority . But ask him, 
What relation is expressed by the proposition of? and, if he 
has not beforehand employed his thoughts a good deal upon 
these subjects, you may safely allow him a week to consider 
of his answer. The prepositions above and below do not de¬ 
note any of the relations expressed by the cases in the an¬ 
cient languages. But the preposition of denotes the same 
relation, which is in them expressed by the genitive case; 
and which it is easy to observe, is of a very metaphysical na¬ 
ture. The preposition of denotes relation in general, consi¬ 
dered in concrete with the co-relative object. It marks that 
the noun substantive which goes before it, is somehow or 
other related to that which comes after it, but without in any 
respect ascertaining, as is done by the preposition above, what 
is the peculiar nature of that relation. We often apply it, 
therefore, to express the most opposite relations; because, 
the most opposite relations agree so far that each of them 
comprehends in it the general idea or nature of a relation. 
We say, the father of the son , and the son of the father ; the 
jir-trees of the forest, and the forest of the fir-trees. The re¬ 
lation in which the father stands to the son is, it is evident, 
a quite opposite relation to that in which the son stands to the 
father; that in which the parts stand to the whole, is quite op¬ 
posite to that in which the whole stands to the parts. The 
word of, however, serves very well to denote all those rela- 


LANGUAGES. 


477 


tions, because in itself it denotes no particular relation, but 
only relation in general; and so far as any particular relation 
is collected from such expressions, it is inferred by the mind, 
not from the preposition itself, but from the nature and ar¬ 
rangement of the substantives, between which the preposition 
is placed. 

What I have said concerning the preposition of, may in 
some measure be applied to the prepositions to, fo?', 'with, by, 
and to whatever other prepositions are made use of in mo¬ 
dern languages, to supply the place of the ancient cases. They 
all of them express very abstract and metaphysical relations, 
which any man who takes the trouble to try it, will find it 
extremely difficult to express by nouns substantive, in the 
same manner as we may express the relation denoted by the 
preposition above, by the noun substantive superiority. They 
all of them, however, express some specific relation, and are, 
consequently, none of them so abstract as the preposition of, 
which may be regarded as by far the most metaphysical of 
all prepositions. The prepositions, therefore, which are ca¬ 
pable of supplying the place of the ancient cases, being more 
abstract than the other prepositions, would naturally be of 
more difficult invention. The relations at the same time, 
which those prepositions express, are, of all others, those 
which we have most frequent occasion to mention. The 
prepositions above , below, near, within, without, against, See. 
are much more rarely made use of, in modern languages, 
than the prepositions of, to, for, with, from, by. A pre¬ 
position of the former kind will not occur twice in a page; 
we can scarce compose a single sentence without the assist¬ 
ance of one or two of the latter. If these latter prepositions, 
therefore, which supply the place of the cases, would be of 
such difficult invention on account of their abstractedness, 
some expedient, to supply their place, must have been of in¬ 
dispensable necessity, on account of the frequent occasion 
which men have to take notice of the relations which they 
denote. But there is no expedient so obvious, as that of va¬ 
rying the termination of one of the principal words. 


478 


FORMATION OF 


It is, perhaps, unnecessary to observe, that there are some 
of the cases in the ancient languages, which, for particular 
reasons, cannot be represented by any prepositions. These 
are the nominative, accusative, and vocative cases. In those 
modern languages which do not admit of any such variety in 
the terminations of their nouns substantive, the correspondent 
relations are expressed by the place of the words, and by the 
order and construction of the sentence. 

As men have frequently occasion to make mention of mul¬ 
titudes as well as of single objects, it became necessary that 
they should have some method of expressing number. Num¬ 
ber may be expressed either by a particular word, expressing 
number in general, such as the words many, more , &c. or by 
some variation upon the words which express the things num¬ 
bered. It is this last expedient which mankind would pro¬ 
bably have recourse to, in the infancy of language. Num¬ 
ber, considered in general, without relation to any particu¬ 
lar set of objects numbered, is one of the most abstract and 
metaphysical ideas, which the mind of man is capable of form¬ 
ing; and, consequently, is not an idea which would readily 
occur to rude mortals, who were just beginning to form a 
language. They would naturally, therefore, distinguish when 
they talked of a single, and when they talked of a multitude 
of objects, not by any metaphysical adjectives, such as the 
English a , an y many, but by a variation, upon the termination 
of the word which signified the objects numbered. Hence 
the origin of the singular and plural numbers in all the an¬ 
cient languages; and the same distinction has likewise been 
retained in all the modern languages, at least, in the greater 
part of words. 

All primitive and uncompounded languages seem to have 
a dual as well as a plural, number. This is the case of the 
Greek, and I am told of the Hebrew, of the Gothic, and of 
many other languages. In the rude beginnings of society, 
one, two, and more, might possibly be all the numeral dis¬ 
tinctions which mankind would have any occasion to take 
notice of. These they would find it more natural to express. 


LANGUAGES- 


479 


by a variation upon every particular noun substantive, than 
by such general and abstract words as one , too, three, four , 
See. These words, though custom has rendered them fami¬ 
liar to us, express, perhaps, the most subtile and refined ab¬ 
stractions, which the mind of man is capable of forming. 
Let any one consider within himself, for example, what he 
means by the word three , which signifies neither three shil¬ 
lings, nor three pence, nor three men, nor three horses, but 
three in general; and he will easily satisfy himself that a 
word, which denotes so very metaphysical an abstraction, 
could not be either a very obvious or a very early invention. 

I have read of some savage nations, whose language was ca¬ 
pable of expressing no more than the three first numeral dis¬ 
tinctions. But whether it expressed those distinctions by 
three general words, or by variations upon the nouns sub¬ 
stantive, denoting the things numbered, I do not remember 
to have met with any thing which could determine. 

As all the same relations which subsist between single 
may likewise subsist between numerous objects, it is evident 
there would be occasion for the same number of cases, in the 
dual and in the plural, as in the singular number. Hence the 
intricacy and complexness of the declensions in all the an¬ 
cient languages. In the Greek there are five cases, in each 
of the three numbers, consequently fifteen in all. 

As nouns adjective, in the ancient languages, varied their 
terminations according to the gender of the substantive to 
which they were applied, so did they likewise, according to 
the case and the number. Every noun adjective in the Greek 
language, therefore, having three genders, and three num¬ 
bers, and five cases in each number, may be considered as 
having five and forty different variations. The first formers 
of language seem to have varied the termination of the ad¬ 
jective, according to the case and the number of the substan¬ 
tive, for the same reason which made them vary it accord¬ 
ing to the gender; the love of analogy, and of a certain re¬ 
gularity of sound. In the signification of adjectives there is 
neither case nor number, and the meaning of such words is 


480 


FORMATION OF 


always precisely the same, notwithstanding all the variety of 
termination under which they appear. Magnus vir , magni 
vin, magnorum virorum , a great man, of a great man , of 
great men ; in all these expressions the words magnus , magni , 
magnorum , as well as the word great, have precisely one and 
the same signification, though the substantives to which they 
are applied have not. The difference of termination in the 
noun adjective is accompanied with no sort of difference in 
the meaning. An adjective denotes the qualification of a 
noun substantive. But the different relations in which that 
noun substantive may occasionally stand, can make no sort 
of difference upon its qualification. 

If the declensions of the ancient languages are so very 
complex, their conjugations are infinitely more so. And the 
complexness of the one, is founded upon the same principle 
with that of the other, the difficulty of forming, in the be¬ 
ginnings of language, abstract and general terms. 

Verbs must necessarily have been coeval with the very 
first attempts towards the formation of language. No affir¬ 
mation can be expressed without the assistance of some verb. 
We never speak but in order to express our opinion that 
something either is or is not. But the word denoting this 
event, or this matter of fact, which is the subject of out affir¬ 
mation, must always be a verb. 

Impersonal verbs, which express in one word a complete 
event, which preserve in the expression that perfect simpli¬ 
city and unity, which there always is in the object and in the 
idea, and which suppose no abstraction, or metaphysical di¬ 
vision of the event into its several constituent members of 
subject and attribute, would, in all probability, be the species 
of verbs first invented. The verbs pluit , it rains; ninget, 
it snows; tonat, it thunders; lueet , it is day; turbatur , there 
is a confusion; &c. each of them express a complete affirm¬ 
ation, the whole of the event, with that perfect simplicity and 
unity with which the mind conceives it in nature. On the 
contrary, the phrases, Alexander ambulat , Alexander walks; 
Petrus sedet , Peter sits , divide the event, as it were, into two 


LANGUAGES. 


481 


parts, the person or subject, and the attribute, or matter of 
fact, affirmed of that subject. But in nature, the idea or 
conception, of Alexander walking, is as perfectly and com¬ 
pletely one simple conception, as that of Alexander not walk¬ 
ing. The division of this event, therefore, into two parts, 
is altogether artificial, and is the effect of the imperfection of 
language, which, upon this, as upon many other occasions, 
supplies, by a number of words, the want of one, which 
could express at once the whole matter of fact that was meant 
to be affirmed. Every body must observe how much more 
simplicity there is in the natural expression, pluit , than in 
the more artificial expressions irnber decidit , the rain falls; 
or tempestas est pluvia , the weather is rainy . In these two 
last expressions, the simple event, or matter of fact, is arti¬ 
ficially split and divided in the one, into two; in the other 
into three parts. In each of them it is expressed by a sort 
of grammatical circumlocution, of which the significancy is 
founded upon a certain metaphysical analysis of the compo¬ 
nent parts of the idea expressed by the word pluit. The 
first verbs, therefore, perhaps even the first words, made use 
of in the beginnings of language, would in all probability be 
such impersonal verbs. It is observed accordingly, I am told 
by the Hebrew grammarians, that the radical words of their 
language, from which all the others are derived, are all of 
them verbs and impersonal verbs. 

It is easy to conceive how, in the progress of language, 
those impersonal verbs should become personal. Let us sup¬ 
pose, for example, that the word venit, it comes , was origin¬ 
ally an impersonal verb, and that it denoted, not the coming 
of something in general, as at present, but the coming of a 
particular object, such as the Lion. The first savage inven¬ 
tors of language, we shall suppose, when they observed the 
approach of this terrible animal, were accustomed to cry out 
to one another, venit, that is, the lion comes; and that this 
word thus expressed a complete event, without the assistance 
of any other. Afterwards, when, on the further progress of 
language, they had begun to give names to particular sub- 

3 r 


482 


FORMATION OF 


stances, whenever they observed the approach of any other 
terrible object, they would naturally join the name of that 
object, to the word venit, and cry out, venit ursus, venit lu¬ 
pus. By degrees the word venit would thus come to signify 
the coming of any terrible object, and not merely the coming 
of the lion. It would now, therefore, express, not the com¬ 
ing of a particular object, but the coming of an object of a 
particular kind. Having become more general in its signifi¬ 
cation, it could no longer represent any particular distinct e- 
vent by itself, and without the assistance of a noun substantive, 
which might serve to ascertain and determine its signification. 
It would now, therefore, have become a personal instead of an 
impersonal verb. We may easily conceive how, in the fur¬ 
ther progress of society, it might still grow more general in 
its signification, and come to signify, as at present, the ap¬ 
proach of any thing whatever, whether good, bad, or in¬ 
different. 

It is probably in some such manner as this, that almost 
all verbs have become personal, and that mankind have learn¬ 
ed by degrees to split and divide almost every event into a 
great number of metaphysical parts, expressed by the differ¬ 
ent parts of speech, variously combined in the different mem¬ 
bers of every phrase and sentence*. The same sort of pro¬ 
gress seems to have been made in the art of speaking as in 
the art of writing. When mankind first began to attempt 
to express their ideas by writing, every character represented 
a whole word. But the number of words being almost in¬ 
finite, the memory found itself quite loaded and oppressed 
by the multitude of characters which it was obliged to retain. 


* As the far greater part of verbs express, at present, notan event, but the 
attribute of an event, and, consequently, require a subject, or nominative 
case, to complete their signification, some grammarians, not having attended 
to this progress of nature, and being desirous to make their common rules 
quite universal, and without any exception, have insisted that all verbs re¬ 
quired a nominative, either expressed or understood; and have, accordingly, 
put themselves to the torture to find some awkward nominatives to those 
few verbs, which still expressing a complete event, plainly admit of none. 
Plait, for example, according to Sanctius , means pluvia phut , in English, the 
rain rains. See Sauctii Minerva, 1. 3. c. 1. 


LANGUAGES. 


483 


Necessity tauglit them, therefore, to divide words into their 
elements, and to invent characters which should represent, 
not the words themselves, but the elements of which they 
were composed. In consequence of this invention, every par¬ 
ticular word came to be represented, not by one character, 
but by a multitude of characters j and the expression of it in 
writing became much more intricate and complex than be¬ 
fore. But though particular words were thus represented 
by a greater number of characters* the whole language was 
expressed by a much smaller, and about four and twenty let¬ 
ters were found capable of supplying the place of that im-, 
mense multitude of characters, which were requisite before. 
In the same manner, in the beginnings of language, men. 
seem tt> have attempted to express every particular event, 
which they had occasion to take notice of, by a particular 
word, which expressed at once the whole of that event. But 
as the number of words must, in this case, have become really 
infinite, in consequence of the really infinite variety of events, 
men found themselves partly compelled by necessity, and 
partly conducted by nature, to divide every event into what 
may be called its metaphysical elements, and to institute 
words, which should denote not so much the events, as the 
elements of which they were composed. The expression of 
every particular event, became in this manner more intricate 
and complex, but the whole system of the language became 
more coherent, more connected, more easily retained and 
comprehended. 

When verbs, from being originally impersonal, had thus 
by the division of the event into its metaphysical elements, 
become personal, it is natural to suppose that they would first 
be made use of in the third person singular. No verb is ever 
used impersonally in our language, nor, so far as I know, in 
any other modern tongue. But in the ancient languages, 
whenever any verb is used impersonally it is always in the 
third person singular. The termination of those verbs, which 
are still always impersonal, is constantly the same with that 
of the third person singular of personal verbs. The consid? 

3 ? 2 


484 


FORMATION OF 


eration of these circumstances, joined to the naturalness of 
the thing itself, may serve to convince us that verbs first be¬ 
came personal in what is now called the third person singular* 
But as the event, or matter of fact, which is expressed by 
a verb, may be affirmed either of the person who speaks, or 
of the person who is spoken to, as well as of some third per¬ 
son or object, it became necessary to fall upon some method 
of expressing these two peculiar relations of the event. In 
the English language this is commonly done, by prefixing, 
what are called the personal pronouns, to the general word 
which expresses the event affirmed. I came, you came, he 
or it came; in these phrases the event of having come is, in 
the first, affirmed of the speaker; in the second, of the 
person spoken to; in the third, of some other person or ob¬ 
ject. The first formers of language, it may be imagined, 
might have done the same thing, and prefixing in the same 
manner the two first personal pronouns, to the same termin¬ 
ation of the verb, which expressed the third person singular, 
might have said ego venti, tu venit, as well as illc or illud 
zenit* And I make no doubt but they would have done so, 
if at the time when they had first occasion to express these 
relations of the verb, there had been any such words as either 
ego or tu in their language. But in this early period of the 
language, which we are now endeavouring to describe, it is 
extremely improbable that any such words would be known. 
Though custom has now rendered them familiar to us, they, 
both of them, express ideas extremely metaphysical and ab¬ 
stract. The word I, for example, is a word of a very par¬ 
ticular species. Whatever speaks may denote itself by this 
personal pronoun. The word I, therefore, is a general word, 
capable of being predicated, as the logicians say, of an infin¬ 
ite variety of objects. It differs, however, from all other ge¬ 
neral words in this respect; that the objects of which it may 
be predicated, do not form any particular species of objects 
distinguished from all others. The word I, does not, like 
the word man, denote a particular class of objects, separated 
from all others by peculiar qualities of their own. It is far 


Languages. 


485 


from being the name of a species, but, on the contrary, when¬ 
ever it is made use of, it always denotes a precise individual, 
the particular person who then speaks. It may be said to 
be, at once, both what the logicians call, a singular, and what 
they call a common term; and to join in its signification the 
seemingly opposite qualities of the most precise individuality, 
and the most extensive generalization. This word, there¬ 
fore, expressing so very abstract and metaphysical an idea, 
would not easily or readily occur to the first formers of lan¬ 
guage. What are called the personal pronouns, it may be 
observed, are among the last words of which children learn, 
to make use. A child, speaking of itself, says Billy walks, 
Billy sits , instead of I walk , I sit. As in the beginnings 
of language, therefore, mankind seem to have evaded the 
invention of at least the more abstract propositions, and to 
have expressed the same relations which these now stand 
for, by varying the termination of the co-relative term, so 
they likewise would naturally attempt to evade the necessity 
of inventing those more abstract pronouns by varying the 
termination of the verb, according as the event which it ex¬ 
pressed was intended to be affirmed of the first, second, or 
third person. This seems, accordingly, to be the universal 
practice of all the ancient languages. In Latin, veni y venisti, 
•venity sufficiently denote, without any other addition, the 
different events expressed by the English phrases, I came, 
you came, he or it came . The verb would, for the same rea¬ 
son, vary its termination, according as the event was intended 
to be affirmed of the first, second, or third persons plural; 
and what is expressed by the English phrases, we came , ye 
came , they came , would be denoted by the Latin words, veni- 
musy venistisy venerunt. Those primitive languages too, which, 
upon account of the difficulty of inventing numeral names, 
had introduced a dual, as well as a plural number, into the 
declension of their nouns substantive, would probably, from 
analogy, do the same thing in the conjugations of their verbs. 
And thus in all those original languages, we might expect to 
find, at least six, if not eight or nine variations, in the ter- 


486 


FORMATION OF 


mination of every verb, according as the event which it de¬ 
noted was meant to be affirmed of the first, second, or third 
persons singular, dual, or plural. These variations again be¬ 
ing repeated, along with others, through all its different ten¬ 
ses, through all its different modes, and through all its differ¬ 
ent voices, must necessarily have rendered their conjugations 
still more intricate and complex than their declensions. 

Language would probably have continued upon this foot¬ 
ing in all countries, nor would ever have grown more simple in 
its declensions and conjugations, had it not become more com¬ 
plex in its composition, in consequence of the mixture of 
several languages with one another, occasioned by the mix¬ 
ture of different nations. As long as any language was spoke 
by those only who learned it in their infancy, the intricacy 
of its declensions and conjugations could occasion no great 
embarrassment. The far greater part of those who had oc¬ 
casion to speak it, had acquired it at so very early a period 
of their lives, so insensibly and by such slow degrees, that 
they were scarce ever sensible of the difficulty. But when 
two nations came to be mixed with one another, either by 
conquest or migration, the case would be very different. 
Each nation, in order to make itself intelligible to those 
with whom it was under the necessity of conversing, would 
be obliged to learn the language of the other. The greater 
part of individuals too, learning the new language, not by 
art, or by remounting to its rudiments and first principles, 
but by rote, and by what they commonly heard in conver¬ 
sation, would be extremely perplexed by the intricacy of its 
declensions and conjugations. They would endeavour, there¬ 
fore, to supply their ignorance of these by whatever shift the 
language could afford them. Their ignorance of the declen¬ 
sions they would naturally supply by the ,use of prepositions; 
and a Lombard, who was attempting to speak Latin, and 
wanted to express that such a person was a citizen of Rome, 
or a benefactor to Rome, if he happened not to be acquainted 
with the genitive and dative cases of the word Roma> would 
naturally express himself by prefixing the prepositions ad and 


LANGUAGES.' 


487 


de to the nominative*, and, instead of Romce , would say, ad 
Roma , and de Roma. Al Roma and di Roma , accordingly, 
is the manner in which the present Italians, the descendants 
of the ancient Lombards and Romans, express this and all 
other similar relations. And in this manner prepositions 
seem to have been introduced, in the room of the ancient de¬ 
clensions. The same alteration has, I am informed, been 
produced, upon the Greek language, since the taking of Con¬ 
stantinople by the Turks. The words are, in a great mea¬ 
sure, the same as before; but the grammar is entirely lost, 
propositions having come in the place of the old declensions. 
This change is undoubtedly a simplification of the language, 
in point of rudiments and principle. It introduces, instead 
of a great variety of declensions, one universal declension, 
which is the same in every word, of whatever gender, num¬ 
ber, or termination. 

A similar expedient enables men, in the situation above 
mentioned, to get rid of almost the whole intricacy of their 
conjugations. There is in every language a verb, known by 
the name of the substantive verb*, in Latin, sum; in English, 
I am. This verb denotes not the existence of any particular 
event, but existence in general. It is, upon this account, 
the most abstract and metaphysical of all verbs; and conse¬ 
quently, could by no means be a word of early invention. 
When it came to be invented, however, as it had all the ten¬ 
ses and modes of any other verb, by being joined with the 
passive participle, it was capable of supplying the place of 
the whole passive voice, and of rendering this part of their 
conjugations as simple and uniform as the use of prepositions 
had rendered their declensions. A Lombard, who wanted 
to say, I am loved , but could not recollect the word amor , 
naturally endeavoured to supply his ignorance, by saying, 
ego sum amatus. Io sono amato> is at this day the Italian 
expression, which corresponds to the English phrase above 
mentioned. 

There is another verb, which, in the same manner, runs 
through all languages, and which is distinguished by the 


488 


FORMATION OF 


name of the possessive verb; in Latin, habeoj in English, 
I have. This verb, likewise, denotes an event of an extreme¬ 
ly abstract and metaphysical nature, and, consequently, can¬ 
not be supposed to have been a word of the earliest invention. 
When it came to be invented, however, by being applied to 
the passive participle, it was capable of supplying a great part 
of the active voice, as the substantive verb had supplied the 
whole of the passive. A Lombard, who wanted to say, I 
had loved , but could not recollect the word amaveram , would 
endeavour to supply the place of it, by saying either ego lia- 
lebam amatum , or ego habui amatum. Io aveva amato , or Io 
ebbi amatOy are the correspondent Italian expressions at this 
day. And thus upon the intermixture of different nations 
with one another, the conjugations, by means of different 
auxiliary verbs, were made to approach towards the simplicity 
and uniformity of the declensions. 

In general it may be laid down for a maxim, that the 
more simple any language is in its composition, the more 
complex it must be in its declensions and conjugations; and 
©n the contrary, the more simple it is in its declensions and 
conjugations, the more complex is must be in its compo¬ 
sition. 

The Greek seems to be, in a great measure, a simple, un¬ 
compounded language, formed from the primitive jargon of 
those wandering savages, the ancient Hellenians and Pelas- 
gians, from whom the Greek nation is said to have been de¬ 
scended. All the words in the Greek language are derived 
from about three hundred primitives, a plain evidence that the 
Greeks formed their language almost entirely among them¬ 
selves, and that when they had occasion for a new word, they 
were not accustomed, as we are, to borrow it from some for¬ 
eign language, but to form it, either by composition, or deriva¬ 
tion from some other word or words, in their own. The de¬ 
clensions and conjugations, therefore, of the Greek are much 
more complex than those of any other European language 
with which I am acquainted. 

The Latin is a composition of the Greek and of the an- 


LANGUAGES. 


489 


cient Tuscan languages. Its declensions and conjugations 
accordingly are much less complex than those of the Greek; 
it has dropt the dual number in both. Its verbs have no op¬ 
tative mood distinguished by any peculiar termination. They 
have but one future. They have no aorist distinct from the 
preterit-perfect; they have no middle voice; and even many 
of their tenses in the passive voice are eked out, in the same 
manner as in the modern languages, by the help of the sub¬ 
stantive verb joined to the passive participle. In both the 
voices, the number of infinitives and participles is much 
smaller in the Latin than in the Greek. 

The French and Italian languages are each of them com¬ 
pounded, the one of the Latin, and the language of the an¬ 
cient Franks, the other of the same Latin, and the language 
of the ancient Lombards. As they are both of them, there¬ 
fore, more complex in their composition than the Latin, so 
are they likewise more simple in their declensions and con¬ 
jugations. With regard to their declensions, they have both 
of them lost their cases altogether; and with regard to their 
conjugations, they have both of them lost the whole of the 
passive, and some part of the active voices, of their verbs. 
The want of the passive voice they supply entirely by the 
substantive verb joined to the passive participle; and they 
make out part of the active, in the same manner, by the 
help of the possessive verb and the same passive participle- 

The English is compounded of the French and the an¬ 
cient Saxon languages. The French was introduced into 
Britain by the Norman conquest, and continued, till the time 
of Edward III. to be the sole language of the law as well as 
the principal language of the court. The English, which 
came to be spoken afterwards, and which continues to be 
spoken now, is a mixture of the ancient Saxon and this Nor¬ 
man French. As the English language, therefore, is more 
complex in its composition than either the French or the 
Italian, so is it likewise more simple in its declensions and 
conjugations. Those two languages retain, at least, a part 

3 e 


430 


FORMATION OF 


of the distinction of genders, and their adjectives vary their 
termination according as they are applied to a masculine or 
to a feminine substantive. But there is no such distinction 
in the English language, whose adjectives admit of no variety 
of termination. The French and Italian languages have, 
both of them, the remains of a conjugation; and all those 
tenses of the active voice which cannot be expressed by the 
possessive verb joined' to the passive participle, as well as 
many of those which can, are, in those languages, marked 
by varying the termination of the principle verb. But almost 
all those other tenses are in the English eked out by other 
auxiliary verbs, so that there is in this language scarce even 
the remains of a conjugation. I love , I lovedy loving , are all 
the varieties of termination which the greater part of Eng¬ 
lish verbs admit of. All the different modifications of mean¬ 
ing, which cannot be expressed by any of those three ter¬ 
minations, must be made out by different auxiliary verbs 
joined to some one or other of them. Two auxiliary verbs 
supply all the deficiencies of the French and Italian conju¬ 
gations; it requires more than half a dozen to supply those 
of the English, which, besides the substantive and possessive 
verbs, makes use of do } did; 'willy would; shall , shoidd; can , 
coidd; maj/y might . 

It is in this manner that language becomes more simple 
in its rudiments and principles, just in proportion as it grows 
more complex in its composition, and the same thing has 
happened in it, which commonly happens with regard to 
mechanical engines. All machines are generally, when first 
invented, extremely complex in their principles, and there 
is often a particular principle of motion for every particular 
movement which it is intended they should perform. Suc¬ 
ceeding improvers observe, that one principle may be so ap¬ 
plied as to produce several of those movements; and thus 
the machine becomes gradually more and more simple, and 
produces its effects with fewer wheels, and fewer principles 
of motion. In language, in the same manner, every case of 


.LANGUAGES. 


491 


every noun, and every tense of every verb, was originally 
expressed by a particular distinct word, which served for this 
purpose and for no other. But succeeding observation discov¬ 
ered, that one set of words was capable of supplying the place 
of all that infinite number, and that four or five prepositions, 
and half a dozen auxiliary verbs, were capable of answering 
the end of all the declensions and of all the conjugations in 
the ancient languages. 

But this simplification of languages, though it arises, per¬ 
haps, from similar causes, has by no means similar effects 
with the correspondent simplification of machines. The sim¬ 
plification of machines renders them more and more perfect, 
but this simplification of the rudiments of languages renders 
them more and more imperfect, and less proper for many 
of the purposes of language: and this for the following reasons. 

First of all, languages are by this simplification rendered 
more prolix, several words having become necessary to ex¬ 
press what could have been expressed by a single word be¬ 
fore. Thus the words Dei and jDeo, in the Latin, sufficient¬ 
ly shew, without any addition, what relation the object sig¬ 
nified is understood to stand in to the objects expressed by 
the other words in the sentence. But to express the same 
relation in English, and in all other modern languages, we 
must make use of, at least, two words, and say, of God , to 
God. So far as the declensions are concerned, therefore, 
the modern languages are much more prolix than the an¬ 
cient. The difference is still greater with regard to the con¬ 
jugations. What a Roman expressed by the single word, 
amavissem , an Englishman is obliged to express by four differ¬ 
ent words, I should have loved. It is unnecessary to take any 
pains to shew how much this prolixness must elevate the elo¬ 
quence of all modern languages. How much the beauty of 
any expression depends upon its conciseness, is well known 
to those who have any experience in composition. 

Secondly, this simplification of the principles of langua¬ 
ges renders them less agreeable to the ear. The variety of 

3 Q 2 




formation of 


termination in the Greek and Latin, occasioned by their de¬ 
clensions and conjugations,, gives a sweetness to their lan¬ 
guage altogether unknown to ours, and a variety unknown 
to any other modern language. In point of sweetness, the 
Italian, perhaps, may surpass the Latin, and almost equal 
the Greek; but in point of variety, it is greatly inferior to 
both. 

Thirdly, this simplification, not only renders the sounds 
of our language less agreeable to the ear, but it also restrains 
us from disposing such sounds as we have, in the manner 
that might be most agreeable. It ties down many words to 
a particular situation, though they might often be placed in 
another with much more beauty. In the Greek and Latin, 
though the adjective and substantive were separated from 
one another, the correspondence of their terminations still 
showed their mutual reference, and the separation did not 
necessarily occasion any sort of confusion. Thus in the first 
line of Virgil, 

Tityre tu patulse recubans sub tegmine fagi; 


we easily see that tu refers to recubans , and patulce to fagi; 
though the related words are separated from one another by 
the intervention of several others; because the terminations, 
shewing the correspondence of their cases, determine their 
mutual reference. But if we were to translate this line li¬ 
terally into English, and say, Tityrus> thou of spreading re¬ 
clining under the shade beech. CEdipus himself could not 
make sense of it; because there is here no difference of ter¬ 
mination, to determine which substantive each adjective be¬ 
longs to. It is the same case with regard to verbs. In Latin, 
the verb may be often placed, without any inconveniency 
or ambiguity, in any part of the sentence. But in English, 
its place is almost always precisely determined. It must fol¬ 
low the subjective and precede the objective member of the 
phrase in almost all cases. Thus in Latin, whether you say, 


LANGUAGES. 


m 


Joannem verberavit Robertas, or Robertas verberavit Joannem , 
the meaning is precisely the same, and the termination fixes 
John to be the sufferer in both cases. But in English, John 
beat Robert, and Robert beat John, have by no means the 
same signification. The place therefore of the three prin¬ 
cipal members of the phrase is in the English, and for the 
9ame reason in the French and Italian languages, almost al¬ 
ways precisely determined; whereas in the ancient languages 
a greater latitude is allowed, and the place of those mem¬ 
bers is often, in a great measure, indifferent. We must 
have recourse to Horace, in order to interpret some parts of 
Milton’s literal translation; 

Who now enjoys thee credulous all gold, 

Who always vacant, always amiable 

Hopes thee; of flattering gales 

Unmindful— 

are verses which it is impossible to interpret by any rules of 
our language. There are no rules in our language, by which 
any man could discover, that, in the first line, credulous re¬ 
ferred to who, and not to thee; or that all gold referred to 
any thing; or that in the fourth line, unmindful referred to 
who in the second, and not to thee in the third; or on the 
contrary, that, in the second line, always vacant, always 
amiable, referred to thee in the third, apd not to who in the 
same line with it. In the Latin, indeed, all this is abun¬ 
dantly plain. 


Qui uunc te fruitur credulus aurea 
Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem 
Sperat te; nescius auras fallacis. 


Because the terminations in the Latin determine the refer¬ 
ence of each adjective to its proper substantive, which it is 
impossible for any thing in the English to do. How much 
this power of transposing the order of their words must have 


494 * 


FORMATION OF LANGUAGES. 


facilitated the composition of the ancients, both in verse and 
prose, can hardly be imagined. That it must greatly have 
facilitated their versification, it is needless to observe; and 
in prose, whatever beauty depends upon the arrangement 
and construction of the several members of the period, must 
to them have been acquirable with much more ease, to much 
greater perfection, than it can be to those whose expression 
is constantly confined by the prolixness, constraint, and mo¬ 
notony of modern languages. 



GLASGOW: 

.Printed by and for i?. Chapman. 
1809 . 


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